I can still do this
by significationary
Summary: What if Peeta fell while they ran to the Cornucopia? Katniss has to figure out how to live without her better half, and discovers nobody's who she thought they were - including herself. Cato/Katniss friendship, eventual Kato love
1. Chapter 1

We're so close, running across the open grass to the Cornucopia, those hellhounds right behind us. We're going to be okay, Peeta and me. We're going to win together and go home together and survive.

But then Peeta stumbles. The leg that he injured gives out and he falls onto his face. I stop once I realize he's no longer right next to me; by then, he's already several yards behind. "Go, Katniss!" he shouts, working his way to his feet. Several hounds burst out of the woods behind him and run towards us with frightening speed.

"Peeta, no!" I yell, but my feet betray me, already moving fast, carrying me towards the Cornucopia as I look over my shoulder at him. "Peeta!" I can't stop myself from running away as fast as I can. My survival instinct is too strong.

"I'm right behind you!" he calls, and a quick glance shows he's back on his feet and running, but still really far behind. "Don't stop!"

I don't stop. I run, heart pounding in my ears, and climb up to the side of the Cornucopia until I'm on the flat roof. Instinctively, I draw my bow and scan the roof, training my arrow at the first thing I see. It's Cato sitting down, bloody, weakened, and looking at me hungrily. "Peeta! Hurry!" I shout over my shoulder, then say to Cato, "Don't move."

He sneers at me, but obeys like I knew he would. Cato doesn't have a death wish; he wants to win. He'll bide his time.

"PEETA!" I scream frantically, risking a look over my shoulder at him. Peeta's running, and the dogs are right behind him, growling and snarling. He makes a flying leap at the side of the building and gets halfway up. If he had something helping him, like my hand pulling him up, he might've made it farther, but I can't turn my back to Cato for more than a few seconds. Grimly, Peeta tries again – I can hear him scrabbling at the smooth metal, and then he isn't trying any more. "PEETA!"

"Katniss, I'm not going to make it," he shouts back. "Win. For me. And tell my parents-"

"No, no Peeta!" I say, voice catching in my throat. "You can't do that! We're going to win together!"

"No, you're going to win. Shoot me, before they get here."

One look down into his eyes and I know he's completely serious. "Peeta," I say again, and I feel something fracturing inside me. This is not happening. There is no way I'm seriously considering shooting him. No. But already, I'm considering how long it would take to turn and plant one right between his eyes. "Get up here!"

"I love you," he says loudly. "Shoot me. And win. Please."

The hounds are closer, only feet from him. I close my eyes briefly, clench my jaw, and then I spin and let the arrow fly. I don't have to watch it go in, don't want to, and maybe even can't, so I turn back to Cato, another arrow on the string, ready to go. But he isn't making any move toward me. He's staring down at the dogs, shocked. "Clove?" he says softly, looking at one of them in particular.

This is my chance. I could kill him right here, while he's distracted, and I'd win. But then I accidentally look down, and catch a glimpse of the hound with Rue's face, and I freeze.

A cannon booms in the distance.

Then I'm angry, more than I've ever been, because Rue is dead and it's all the fault of that blonde Career across the roof from me. Three swift steps, and I'm kneeling next to him, my knife at his throat. "Move an inch, and I'll cut your head off," I hiss. In my anger, I've completely forgotten how scared I was to face him.

"Go on," he says, breathing hard. "Do it." He isn't taunting me, I'm surprised to realize. He's serious. "I was dead anyway, right? Didn't know until now." He takes several deep, rasping breaths – something's broken inside of him. The bloody claw marks on his face shine wet in the night, and blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth. By all accounts, he should've been the victor, but there he is, on the ground, at my mercy. "Kill me," he urges, brows drawn together fiercely, but something in his face is desperate.

I've already won – we both know it – but I don't kill him quite yet. "How did you find Rue?" I demand. He doesn't answer, smiling viciously at me with blood-stained teeth until I dig my fist into a bloody spot on his arm, and he gasps.

"Which one was she?" he forces out between gritted teeth.

"District 11. She was just a little girl. How did you monsters find her?" I growl, holding the knife in place.

"Monsters? Look at yourself," Cato coughs, spitting up more blood. "Torturing someone for information. Shooting Lover-Boy in cold blood. Who's really the monster? My whole life was leading up to this. You, you volunteered." He coughs again, so violently that I almost lose my grip on his arm and neck.

I can't think about what he's saying, so instead I throw my knee over him and sit on top of him, squeezing his broken ribs between my two legs. Cato groans deeply, and gasps frantically, "Okay, okay."

Suspiciously, I relax my legs and stare at him. "Tell me."

"Marvel. He saw her in the trees, called dibs. Wanted to hurt you so you'd make stupid…" He coughs again. "Stupid mistakes. Look how well that worked."

"And you let him go alone?"

"She was tiny, he should've been able to handle it."

"She was a _child_," I grind out, furious.

"Doesn't matter. She wasn't going to win." He takes another wheezing breath. "Ya gonna keep torturing me? Pull a 63rd Games move and humiliate me until I beg for you to kill me? Bet your fans in 12 would love that. Gonna set me on fire, girl on fire?" he says mockingly.

"I'm not that kind of person," I say decidedly. The Games can't change me that much. I won't allow it. If I torture him to death, I could never look Prim in the eyes again. I still may never be able to.

"Then kill me," he says in a whisper. "Just do it already. So my family can keep at least a little of their pride." He keeps a shadow of his usual confident smirk halfway on his face, but underneath is was acceptance of this fate and maybe just a little begging.

"Your family?" I ask, expecting some kind of trap. I won't be surprised at all if they train the Careers in how to beg their way out of being killed.

Cato swallows hard and looks away, not about to speak, but then I clamp my legs down again, harder. When I let go, he's shaking, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Yes, my family, their lives depend on me," he says very quickly. "Why do you want to know that?" he asked, trying to frown, but his face keeps inadvertently twitching back into being in unbearable pain.

"What happens if you die?" was all I say.

"Don't you mean when?" he rasps, but I twitch my knees, and he gasps out a quiet answer I can't quite make out.

"What?" I frown, leaning slightly closer after a glance at his arms to make sure I've pinned him.

"I die, they starve," he says softly, but distinctly through bloody lips.

I sit back up, keeping myself firmly in place on top of him so he won't get any ideas and try to throw me off. I'm not going let him win, ever, for any reason, but this thought of his family catches me off-guard. By killing him, I'm killing a whole family. "Brothers or sisters?" I ask, trying to make some sort of peace with this decision.

"Three brothers. One younger. And a little sister," he says shortly, then adds in a voice softer than a whisper. "Stop. Kill me." I don't answer, lost in thought, until he adds even quieter, "Please."

"One of us has to die," I say, thinking out loud.

"Right," Cato's confused.

"And I need to get back to Prim."

"Am I supposed to say something?" he asks, breathing labored.

"No," I glare, and he cowers.

"Okay, sorry. Don't…" He doesn't finish that sentence, but the way he's cringing from me makes it clear what he meant – don't hurt me again. And I feel a little pity for Cato, how he's reduced to this.

"I could throw you down to the mutts," I say savagely. "Let them kill you for me."

He doesn't ask me not to, he has too much pride, but he does glance over the side at the hounds, which are still circling us, growling, and when he looks back to me, he's terrified.

"Or slit your throat, how about that? Maybe a knife in your gut, like your goon did to Rue?" I continue, almost trying the ideas on, because when it comes down to it, I have reservations about straight-up killing someone. Everything else I've done was out of survival instinct, never cold-blooded murder like this.

"Take your pick," he says flatly.

I run through every scenario I can think of, multiple times, trying to think of some way to win without losing myself in the process. Killing Cato while he lies there, helpless, is more than I can ever justify to myself. Only now do I understand what Peeta had meant when he said he needed to stay him; now, when it's too late to tell him.

I refuse to be a part of an undisguised fight to the death between two teenagers. But what does that last-minute decision make me but a hypocrite? I was okay with it when the violence was excusable, when it was going on to faceless other tributes, far away from me. Suddenly, though, it's different with him breathing right here beneath me. I have to do something unexpected.

An idea occurs to me, half-formed and completely insane, but definitely unexpected. So I start going through his pockets with the hand not holding a knife to his throat. Most of them are torn open, the others empty or holding only dirt, and one in his jacket is sopping with blood. "Turn over," I say abruptly. "Slowly. Sudden movements and I'll put this through your jugular."

He doesn't argue with me and slowly turns, hissing through his teeth when I accidentally brush his ribs. I stay hovering over him, holding the knife against his neck and drawing a thin red line around it in the process, and then he's finally on his stomach, cheek pressed into the cold metal. "What are you doing?" he asks, his words muffled.

"I'm not sure." I check all of his pockets in the back, find nothing, and say sharply, "Hands." With a length of rope from my backpack, I tie them together at the wrists, having to pull one of them over farther since he can't do it himself and making him groan again. I wrap the rope around several times and tie several redundant knots, just to be safe. I know that later, I'll have to worry about his legs, but he's weak for the moment, and that's good enough.

"So you changed your mind about the torture?" he says darkly, and I can feel him shaking harder, muscles trembling.

"I'm not sure," I say again. "Stand up." Cato does his best to obey, but after the first few tries, he's a quivering mess. So I help him up, keeping the knife handy in case he tries anything. Finally, he's standing on shaking legs, towering over me and looking very dangerous. Nervously, I grab my bow and draw an arrow. "Go by the edge," I order.

"You're feeding me to the dogs after all," he says wearily. The mutts are already jumping, trying to bite his feet as he gets closer to the edge.

"Don't assume." Carefully, I aim and shoot, straight past him into the skull of one of the dogs. Cato, who'd stiffened at the twang of my bowstring, looks at the dog and then at me in shock. But I pay no attention to that and shoot the next dog, then the next, all of them in succession until they're all lying on the ground, dead. "Jump down," I say impatiently. "If you run, I'll shoot."

With no expression, he does what I ask. I jump down a safe distance from him and point the bow at his head when I land. "Face against the wall." While he stood there, I pick all the arrows out of the corpses and put them back in my quiver. I definitely am not thinking about the mangled body on the other side of this building. "Walk in front of me and follow my directions."

He obeys, but says over his shoulder, "So what, are you going to try to convince me not to kill you?"

"No."

"Gonna drown me?"

"No."

"Shoot me in the back?"

"Stop guessing."

"I don't get you, Twelve," he says after a moment.

"Stop trying. Head left a little."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alright. Since this fic is proving to be pretty popular already, I thought I'd introduce myself. Hi! I'm Anna, and I'm a Kato shipper, but in a really weird way. See, so many people take the two of them out of character to make them fall in love that it kind of makes me want to curl around this ship and hiss at anyone who starts to screw it up again. This is me having the balls to finally give it a shot myself. **

**If you have any input for me, feel free to let me know! I know I'm not the biggest HG fan in the world, and I don't get everything right. Characterization is the most important thing to me, though, so hopefully that's relatively good. **

**Enjoy! **

Other than directions, neither of us talk after that, to save our strength. I do my very best not to feel bad for how his steps turn into stumbles. He almost falls once, and I instinctively reach out to catch him. He throws me down the instant my hand touches him, or tries to, and tries to run away, but he falls again, onto his side and lets out a very small whimper. I pull out the knife and press it deeper into his neck, drawing some blood. "Don't try that again," I say coldly. "Or I will kill you."

He says nothing, but he looks at me with fear in his eyes and gives the barest hint of a nod. I don't help him stand back up, waiting the nearly five minutes it takes for him to do it on his own. Then, we set off again, walking for almost an hour until we're beside the river where Cato had almost killed me a few days ago. "So poetic justice?" he asks flatly.

"So sit down and don't talk." I keep one eye on him as I fill my water bottle from the river and drink. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at the bottle desperately,. Reluctantly, I go over to where he's sitting and hold the bottle to his lips. "Go on," I say impatiently when he looks at me, surprised. So he tilts his head back and drinks like he's been in a desert for weeks. When I finally pull the empty bottle away, the rim is smeared with blood. I wipe it off and refill the bottle, then stash it in my bag. "Stand up," I tell him. This time, when I help him up, he doesn't try anything.

"What now?" he says blankly, and at that point, he bares no resemblance to the vicious boy who had entered the arena, or even the one who glared at me on the roof. This is a completely different person, one who's scared and hopeless, and I don't know what to think about that.

So I don't think. I sling the bow over my quiver, safely out of the way, and adjust my grip on the knife. "It's going to get slippery. Be careful," is all I say. I lead him along next to the river, towards the cave I'd stayed in with– towards the cave. Although I keep myself ready to end any escapes he starts, I don't hold the knife to him. Instead, I clench my jaw, steel myself, and wrap my hand around one of his gigantic arms. It isn't out of any stupid ideas of making friends or winning his trust; it's simple practicality. If he falls and cracks open his head, my budding plan will be ruined.

"Where are we going?" he asks after a few minutes of walking.

"Somewhere I can think," I mutter. I feel him slip and brace myself against a big rock to stop him from falling. Accidentally, I yank his arms out behind him, pulling on his hurt shoulder, and he cries out before he can stop himself. I say the first syllable of an apology, then realize what I'm doing and stop.

We get to the cave after a little more walking. I help him down into it first, then order, "Up against the back wall." After I hear him obey, I half-slide, half walk into the cave, holding my knife at the ready. "You can sit down," I say offhand, after a second. I just need everything to stop so I can think, process what's happened in the past few hours. He starts to sit, but down on the side where the floor is lower. "Not there, on this side," I say, pointing to the high ground furthest from me. "If it rains, you'd be sitting in three inches of water."

"Thanks," he says reluctantly.

"Don't. Stay there and don't move. If you want to sleep or whatever, fine. But don't think about leaving or trying to get out of here. I won't sleep. And you'll die."

He nods once, and leans against the cave wall, but he doesn't close his eyes.

I don't care. I sit hunched up, backpack still on, knees to my chest and arms around them, and for the first time, I let myself think about the fact that Peeta is dead. Peeta, who'd been in here, right here, with me. He'd been so sweet, so stupidly self-sacrificing, so terrifyingly right about him not having a chance to survive these games. And now, he's so, so dead.

This is not the time for tears, I know it isn't, but there they are, and they don't stop coming. I cry silently, pressing my arm to my mouth and biting down so I won't make a sound. I need to be strong to win these games. I need to make a decision. But I can't do that until I cry myself out. So I cry; I cry for Rue, for myself, for the boy with me I'm going to have to kill, for Prim, for this idiotic game and its idiotic rules, and mostly for Peeta.

Peeta, that stupid, stupid boy who admitted he loved me on national TV, mostly because he did, who was willing to sacrifice himself so I could win. That boy with the bread who gave me some of it. While he was alive, I thought of him as an asset, as something that could help me survive, but now that he's dead, I understand him so much better than I ever could've while he lived. That's mainly why I'm crying, because of the pointlessness of these games, how they give friends and take them away just as indiscriminately.

I have to do something, _something_ to honor him, to show them that they don't own me. I need a plan. I need to stop crying. So I do.

Across the cave, Cato's quiet, but when I look at him, it seems like he's looking at me. But that's probably the dull light playing tricks on my teary eyes. And that's what I think the beeping is, too, some kind of trick, until I realize there's a tiny parachute floating down through the mouth of the cave.

Cato stirs at the noise, looking up. So he is awake. I should've expected nothing less from a Career. That doesn't really matter – I reach for the metal container, crack it open, and dump rolls out into my lap.

Bread.

Eyes suddenly blurry again, I fumble for the strip of paper that comes with the bread.

_Don't do anything he wouldn't. – H_

I smile, rubbing my fingers over the printed words. Haymitch is more help in these sentence-long notes than he is in person, and the irony of that is suddenly very amusing. "I promise," I whisper.

But what _would_ Peeta do? There are many options. He was capable of killing – he'd definitely be okay with it, given that it would save my life. But that's Peeta in the Games. The Peeta I'd known before would never hurt anybody. He disobeyed his parents to feed my starving family. He wanted to show the Capitol that they didn't own him. That's what I have to do.

I doze off thinking about it, half-asleep but half listening for Cato to make his move. He doesn't so much as shift against the floor while my eyes are closed, and I'm sleepily grateful for this. Then, I'm jolted awake by a grinding sound. "Don't move!" I yell, drawing an arrow instinctively and pointing it towards the sound.

"I didn't, I swear!" Cato shouts back, staring at the floor. There's an iron loop in the floor that wasn't there before, like it grew out of the stone. Tentatively, I walk across the cave towards it, kneel down and touch it with the tip of my finger, then my hand. It's cool and unyielding; I can't move it at all, even when I put my whole weight behind the pull.

"The Gamemakers," I sigh, sitting down. "Something's going on."

"But what," he says, staring at the loop hopelessly.

I run through some of the options rapidly. Either they're going to facilitate my keeping Cato prisoner out of some sick desire to see how far I'll go, or they'll help him escape for an upset underdog victory. They're going to make things more exciting one way or another, and all of those ways will mean more danger, higher stakes. "We'll find out," I say grimly.

I retreat back to my side of the cave, gathering the bread up from where it fell when I stood. Belatedly, I realize I'm starving and break off a piece of one roll. It's fluffy and delicious, but something is off. There's paper inside of it, another tiny note. Quickly, I unroll it.

_You did the right thing. Thank you_.

No signature, but I don't need one. I recognize the handwriting from the packages in Peeta's family's bakery. His mother sent this, which means she must've baked this bread. It's suddenly more precious than I can express.

I have to tell his family I got the message.

I know what to do almost instantly. There are cameras everywhere, of course, so they'd catch this: I look up at the ceiling and salute with three fingers. It's the least I can do.

Cato watches me wordlessly, his face impassive, and I can't tell what he's thinking, but it doesn't matter. I sit down again and eat while I can. Things are about to go terribly or very well, and I'm not going to count on either.

Another beeping package drifts down before I've finished three bites, and this one is bigger than all the others. Frowning, I grab it, popping the latches and opening it – two pairs of thick iron shackles. There's no note or sign of any kind to tell who sent it, but I suppose it doesn't really matter.

I stand, taking the shackles in one hand, the knife in the other. "Wow," Cato coughs as I attach one set to his feet, running the chain in the middle through the iron loop on the floor. "Someone's getting sponsors." I don't say anything in response, only loosen the ropes around his wrist to attach one of the cuffs and bring it around to his front.

"Other hand. Slowly," I say cautiously, very aware that he can knock me out with one punch. But he doesn't, he can barely move his arm without wincing. I attach the other cuff and take the ropes and key with me. Businesslike, I drop the rope far out of his reach and crawl outside for a second so I can hide the key out of sight. For a second, I consider finding a hiding place outside, using the pale dawn light to look for someplace safe. But then I realize the best thing to do is the simplest thing. Carefully, I slip the key into my shirt, inside my bra where the thin padding will helpfully help keep it hidden. Then, I slide back inside.

"You hid the key out there?" he asks dully, watching me.

"Yep," I answer, my face stony, and I sat back down to eat more of the rolls. I can feel his eyes on me as I eat; I know he has to be hungry, but he doesn't ask for anything. For a second, I consider ignoring him. But then I know exactly what I have to do – what Peeta would've done. Slowly, I pick up one of the rolls and throw it over to him. It bounces within his reach, and after a second, he reaches out and picks it up.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"Thank Peeta," I say shortly.

Once the sky brightens, I go out to set some traps. Hopefully, we'll be here long enough for me to collect animals from them. Before I leave, I throw another roll to Cato – I've eaten three myself, and I'm barely half his size. "I'll be back," I tell him shortly, and he nods.

The woods are full of life, which means they haven't decided to starve us out – yet. I throw together a few quick snares in some promising-looking areas, and hurry back to the cave. Just like I had been the last time I stayed there, I'm anxious to leave it for too long, but for a completely different reason. Last time, I was afraid the boy waiting for me there had died. This time, I'm afraid he hasn't.

When I stand at the mouth of the cave, I draw my knife in preparation, reminding myself that if he's free or trying to get free, I have to kill him, for Prim. He's only going to stay alive as long as it's useful for me, and no longer.

Thankfully, he's where I left him, chained to that iron loop on the floor, so I allow myself a sigh of relief. Then I look closer and see he's shining with sweat, shivering on the floor, and trying very hard to look normal. "Are you sick?" I ask tentatively, looking for any sign that he's faking before getting closer. Suspiciously, I shed my pack, dropping it onto the floor.

He doesn't answer. It looks like maybe he's shaking his head no or nodding, hard to tell. I take several slow steps towards him, watching his every move. "You… p-poisoned me," he finally says from between clenched teeth.

"No, no I didn't. Where would I even get poison?" I say, half to myself. I kneel down next to him, holding the knife tightly, reminding myself it could still be a trick, but when I'm close to him, I see there's no way this isn't really true. He's shaking with chills, so much so that he doesn't even realize he's lying on his hurt shoulder, pushing on the wound. "Lie on your back," I say abruptly, and when he doesn't answer, I move him. He's hot to the touch, clammy with sweat, and like putty in my hands. That's frightening.

I need to get his shirt off, to see what his injuries actually look like. Just based on instinct, this seems like some kind of infection, and that's very, very bad. Infections are how most of the kids die in this. Infection or dehydration. If it wasn't for me, he might've been dead by now. No, he definitely should've been, and by my hand, too. It's not me keeping him alive; it's this plan of mine. Peeta's plan.

I think for a second, then stop thinking and just act. Turning away from him, I fish the key out of my shirt and unlock one wrist. He barely even moves. Even quicker, I strip off his jacket, pulling it off one arm then sliding my hand under his back to hold him up while I got it out from under him. Then, it's off the other arm, over the chain, and it's off. He has another hoodie on under that, so I repeat the process, and then it's his just his thin shirt, ripped and stained. That's easy to stretch over his arm, over his head, down the other arm and chain and then off.

He's all hard muscle from his life of training – it's easy to see that with his torso bare. But the sharp lines of definition are broken by bruises and bloody tears. He had claw marks on his arm and shoulder, dark with congealing blood and puffy red with infection. That's the problem, there, probably from those dogs. I wouldn't be surprised if they designed the dogs to be like that, so they'd kill the kids either way. And he has other bruises and marks: deep bloody bruises down his sides, more claw marks on his face, a gash in his stomach, and an enormous mottled bruise over most of his back, like he fell onto something really hard. All of it looks extremely painful, and I have no idea how to deal with most of it. I wish my mother or Prim was here.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles, half-opening his eyes and looking at me with fever-glazed eyes. "I die, you win. 'S what you want, right?"

"Saving your life," I mutter. "Stop moving."

Either in response to me or just coincidentally, he lies there, limp on the floor. So I go and get the remainder of that paste Haymitch had sent for Peeta and the water bottle. Using his filthy shirt as a rag, I dampen it and wipe at some of the blood, starting with his shoulder, soaking it to flush out whatever I can. Then, I apply the paste in a thick layer to the open wounds.

When I touch any part of his shoulder at all, he winces, twisting away from me on the floor. He could probably still fight me off, if he's flailing randomly in pain. So I move him, stretching the chains on his legs all the way out so he can't move them and sitting on top of the other end of his arm shackles. "Stop. I'm helping you," I tell him softly, then try again to spread the salve on his claw wounds.

He gasps again, making an involuntary sound in the back of his throat, and tries to get away, but I put my whole body weight on the chain underneath me and keep him mostly in place. "Almost done," I mutter, steel myself, and cover the rest of the wound with the paste in one swift stroke.

"Ohhhhhhhh shit," he groan, writhing until I stop touching him. "Stop," he begs, and he looks at me with suddenly clear, intense eyes.

"I will," I promise. "Breathe."

He tries to obey, but his deep breath in stretches his chest and he flinches. Quickly, as gently as I can, I spread some more healing paste down his sides, hoping it can somehow fix his bones, too. My fingers come away smeared with some of his blood; I wipe it on my pants.

I decide to leave his back alone – the bruise will heal itself, and I should save the paste in case I need it later. That just leaves his face.

Using his shirt again, I dampen it and wipe as much of the dirt away from the claw marks as I can. He doesn't fight against me, thankfully. "That's good, stay still for just a few more seconds," I murmur, smearing just a little paste on the cuts in his cheek, to make sure they won't get infected later. "Okay," I say, "it's over." But Cato isn't listening; he's unconscious.

Relief floods through me. I take my first deep breath since sitting down and realize his head has ended up in my lap, the chain underneath me, knife forgotten beside me.

Quickly, I pick the knife back up again, but I don't move away from him. His head stays cradled in my lap, my hand hesitantly over his claw marks. After a second of thought, I reattach the second shackle to his other wrist, locking it tightly and putting the key in my shirt again. And then, I just stay there.

While he's passed out, not trying to kill me or anything, it's easier to forget he's my enemy. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the human contact, the simple happiness of feeling someone against me and knowing I'm not completely alone. It doesn't matter that the person with me is a brutal killing machine, because for those seconds he's just a boy one who has to die like all the others for pointless entertainment. Just briefly, he's human.

Then he stirs, stiffens, and opens his eyes. Instantly, I take my hand away from his face. "How do you feel?" I ask, businesslike. "Better?"

"Better," he nods weakly. "What'd you do?"

"Tried to help."

"Why? Helping me just to kill me later? You're colder than I gave you credit for," he says darkly, looking up at me.

"No. I already said that's not it." I think I maybe should move away from him, but he isn't showing any sign of tenseness or readiness to strike. He isn't showing much of anything. So I hold tighter to the knife and don't move.

"Well, make your move, then," he frowns.

"Would you rather die or live?"

"Live," he says patiently.

"Right. You're not escaping, so-" He shifts when I say that and I narrow my eyes at him. "Don't even think about it," I say fiercely, putting the knife to his throat but not pushing too hard. "You're not escaping," I repeat. "So either you die and I win, which you don't want, or we both live."

"What, forever? And never finish this? They'd never let that happen," he says, lowering his voice.

I keep the knife on his neck and lean down. "That's not the only option," I whisper softly, so the cameras won't pick it up.

"What are you talking about?" he demands, looking at me like I'm insane.

"I'm not sure yet." I straighten up and back away from him, letting his head down gently onto the stone. He sits up as I walk away, chains rattling.

"So you're not going to kill me?"

Everyone is listening – I can't say what I mean. "I'm not promising anything," I finally mutter. "Here." I toss a couple rolls at him. Munching on one myself, I slip out of the cave, bow and arrow on my back, and refill the bottle at the river after drinking all that I want. Warily, I sneak through the woods and check on each trap. Two of them have a squirrel each, which I kill and take back with me. On my way back to the cave, I collect an armful of branches, dry as possible so they won't smoke up the cave.

I slide down into the cave and begin skinning and gutting the squirrels on autopilot, skewering them through with a long stick. Next is the fire – I arrange some of the branches near the mouth of the cave and start a small, hot fire with a match from my pack. I prop up the sticks with the squirrels on them using several large rocks, setting them close enough so they'll cook but not burn. Then I sit back and waited for the squirrels to be done.

While I wait, I take the long, straight branches I also gathered and start to carve at them, sharpening the tips and smoothing the shafts. Who knows if I might need more arrows later on, so I seize the opportunity to make them. For a second, I consider trying to find the materials to add fletching to these arrows, but decide against it. Too much time, too much effort, and the arrows will be fine without it.

"What's those?" Cato asks after several minutes of working.

"Arrows," I answer shortly. I don't want to spend a lot of time talking to him, getting to know him, because I still might have to kill him. This can not get personal between the two of us.

"To shoot me?" he says blandly.

"We'll see. But remember what I said?"

I've said a lot of things, but he seems to understand which thing I'm talking about. "Yeah, and I say it's crazy," he says, narrowing his eyes at me, and for a moment, I feel very small.

"Yeah, well right now my crazy is saving your life," I snap, testing a point on my finger. "So I'd watch what you're saying before I change my mind." He has no response to that, so I carve in silence for a few minutes. "I could've won at about a million points by now," I say at last. "I could be going back to my family right now."

"Then why aren't you?" he challenges. "You want a memorable win?"

"Everything isn't about winning."

"Maybe for you."

"Yeah, for me and everybody who isn't a Career."

"Then what's it about?" he asks almost angrily. "Tell me that, Twelve."

"My name is Katniss. Not Twelve," I say firmly. "Even if this does end bad, my name is Katniss."

He doesn't say anything, so I go back to carving. In no time, I have half a dozen new arrows to add to the eight or so in my quiver, and the squirrels are done cooking. I pull one of the sticks out of the ground, break off the sharpened end, and go to Cato. "Here," I say, avoiding his eyes. "Take it."

After a second, he takes it. "Thanks," he grunts.

"Yep." I walk back to my side, take my squirrel, and eat, doing my best not to look at him. Instead, I consider my plan. It's developing more as time goes on, simmering in the back of my head, and it's kind of almost done. I know for sure that no part of my plan will be possible without his cooperation.

So all I have to do was convince him my plan would work, and that two winners would be better than one. The problem is I have no idea how to do that. Cato is a brutal killing machine – I know that, and I won't delude myself into thinking that's changed. He isn't trying to escape most of the time, but only because he knows if he's dead, he has no chance of winning whatsoever.

I bring him water in the bottle and stay right next to him, holding the knife so he can't do anything like throw it at me and knock me out or something. "Listen," I say, leaning down right next to him, putting the blade on the back of his neck. "If you won either way, would you win alone and kill me, or win together? That's what you have to think about," I whisper in his ear.

He takes the bottle away from his lips for a second and said, "Does it matter?"

"It might." I stand up straight again and wait until he finishes drinking to take the bottle back. Wherever I'd put the healing paste, his cuts and bruises are already looking better, and his fever seems to be gone. "You feel better?" I ask, trying to sound cold. If the Gamemakers believe I might torture him and end up killing him, they'll be more likely to let things play out without interfering.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Are you going to… why'd you help me?" he asks for nearly the millionth time. "Can ya…" He glanced around nervously. "Can you tell me that?"

"When I figure out why, I'll let you know." I cover the fire to keep the coals hot. "Be right back." I grab my bow and quiver and slip out. First, I fill up the water bottle again. My plan is to check the perimeter, make sure there are no surprises coming our way. While I'm circling back to the mouth of the cave, two things happen almost simultaneously.

First, another beeping package floats down towards me, small and silver like most of the other ones I've received. Frowning, I reach up and catch it.

The capsule is barely in my hands when the sky darkens and drops start falling. The rain starts falling harder almost right away. Something in my gut twists; this torrential downpour is very clearly raising the stakes in some way. Since I'm not in any immediate danger, that can only mean that Cato is.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, guys, thanks for all the positive reinforcement! Due to overwhelmingly the nice things you said, I'm posting another chapter. What can I say. Flattery works. **

**A brief explanation of some things: Cato starts acting different than he does before Peeta dies, I realize this, but I promise it makes sense. I might do a chapter from his POV where I explain this more, but basically, his survival instinct takes over. Even he doesn't want to die for no reason if he's got a choice. So. Keep that in mind. **

I rip the parachute off and run, flat-out sprint for the cave. Branches and leaves rip at my face and arms, but I don't let anything slow me down. I know he isn't dead – I would've heard the cannon, this would be over – but that isn't any consolation in these games. Something terrible is happening.

As I get closer to the mouth of the cave, I see water flowing along the ground. It's going inside – I know that instinctively before I even see it, and that only makes me run faster. I don't try to stay standing as I go down into the cave; I let the miniature waterfall carry me down, landing on my back, but I don't stay down for more than a second. "Cato?" I shout frantically over the rushing water. My hair is in my eyes and I can't see for a second, but then I scrape it back and look everywhere. And there he is, just his boots, chained to the iron loop that's somehow now a foot above the surface of the water.

The ground where I'd put the bread container and Cato's clothes is dry, since it's the highest place in the cave. Quickly, I take off everything, stripping down to my shirt and pants. No time to take off my boots, so I wade in with them on. A foot in, the floor drops off, giving way to a deep hole, full of crashing, torrential water. I feel for the bottom but can't find one, so I yank the knife out of my belt, stick it deep into the dirt, and hold onto it while I lower myself down into the hole. Thankfully, it's only a few feet deep, up to my thighs, so I put the knife back in my belt and wade towards the boots.

While I'm still a few feet away, something brushes my leg. I jump, almost fall, and then there's a hand clamped around my calf. I reach down and find his other hand. We lock our hands around each others' wrists and pull, and then his head emerges from the water, facing away from me. Immediately, he begins coughing. "Katniss," he gasps between coughs.

"What happened?" I grunt, moving my arms so they're under his. I hoist him up a little higher, bracing the back of his neck against my chest.

"Floor gave out. Started raining." He keeps coughing like he's going to lose one of his lungs, and his convulsing almost knocks me down.

"Been under long?"

"Couple minutes," he stutters, barely managing to get the first syllable out. In the back of my mind, I observe that if we make it out of this, I'll have to take a moment to be impressed with his breath-holding abilities. Right then, though, I need to focus on getting him out of this.

I pull the key out of my shirt, realizing with some annoyance that I have to find a new hiding place for it after this. "Listen, I'll unlock you," I say loudly, over the rush of the water. "But you have to hold on to me and make sure I don't fall, do you understand?"

"Yeah," he cough.

"Drink some of this water," I order, pointing at the swirling liquid around us. "Do it!" I repeat louder when he doesn't respond, and he listens. At first, he coughs it all back up, gagging and wheezing, but then he doesn't.

"Okay," he says, breaths still ragged, but he isn't hacking up his guts anymore.

"Alright, hold on to me. You let go, we die," I remind him, suddenly apprehensive about leaving my welfare up to his strength.

"I know." He twists around to look me in the eyes. They're bloodshot, tired, but definitely strong. He'll keep me alive. This time.

I take a few steps closer to the post and he sort of wraps himself around me, one arm locked around my waist, the other somehow convoluted under and around my shoulder and bicep, the chain between them cutting into my chest. Whatever he's doing, it's very secure – I take several more steps, held upright by his upper-body muscles. Right when I think I'm within arms reach of one of his feet, the ground beneath my feet shifts, drops a little.

"You okay?" I say to Cato. His head is somewhere beneath my arm, hopefully not under water.

"Yeah," he grunts. So I take one more step and snag one of his ankles, force my fingers to uncurl from the metal key. It takes several tries to get the key in, since my hands are shaking so badly from cold and nerves. And then his one foot is free, so I can pull the chain through the hoop and his other leg falls into the water.

His whole body weighs too much – I feel myself slipping. "You've got to stand," I say calmly, trying to ignore how I think the floor might be shaking again. "Stand up, or you'll pull me down."

For a heartbreaking second, I think he won't, that I'll slip and hit my head and it'll be over. Then, he loosens his grip on me, trying to get his feet beneath him. I hold him up while he tries, praying I can be strong enough. And then the immense weight of him is completely lifted when he stands on his own two feet. I'm relieved.

And then I'm terrified, because he's walking away, towards the edge, and leaving me behind. "What are you doing?" I shout.

He doesn't answer, grabbing hold of the side of hole. So I reach out, grab for something connected to him and get his hand. I latch on to him, holding onto it like the lifeline it is. He looks at me, but I can't make out his expression. If he's going to save me or shake me off, I can't tell. "Cato," I say desperately, hopelessly, not bothering to speak loudly.

He keeps looking at me, breathing hard, and then he wraps his huge hand around my arm and pulls, muscles straining. I don't struggle, so he gets me to the side in a matter of seconds, but somehow, those seconds are the most terrifying ones of the whole games.

And then the stone is underneath my hands, cutting into my fingers. I let go of his hand and crawl up the shallow incline until I'm on dry ground again, where I kneel, panting. "Thanks," I say as soon as I have enough breath.

"Don't," he says from on the ground next to me. "You would've killed me if I didn't. Right?"

I stare at him in confusion for a second, then realize I still have the knife in my belt. "Right," I say, and reach for it only to discover there's something in my hand – the key. So I put the key in my pocket, pull out the knife, and stand up on wobbly legs. Cato seems to need more time to recover – he's still on all fours when I turn to him. "Come on, stand up," I prompt, breathing deeply.

He glares at me in suspicious disbelief, and obeys. I lead him outside, out into the pouring rain, pushing him up in front of me. He starts to walk, but I grab the chain between his handcuffs and pull him back, spinning him around so we're facing. I hold his arms down with one hand and use the other to keep the knife firmly at his throat as I lean in. "Listen to me. They need a winner. Threaten them with none, and they'll panic. We can do that," I say quietly so none of the microphones pick up our conversation over the torrential rain.

"Why?" he whispers back. "Would this be better in some way?"

"Yeah, neither of us would have to die."

"And why does that matter?"

"Because I'm done with death. I'll do it if I have to, I will, but I don't want to. I just want to go home. And that's the same for you, right?" We're looking straight into each others' eyes now, so close I can feel the heat of his bare chest, see the veins in his arms and shoulders, the subtle colors of his bruises and angry red of the claw marks. There's so much raw power right in front of me that it's scary, and I'm very glad I have this knife at his throat.

"I'm supposed to bring honor to my district," he says after a second, voice softer than before. "I'm supposed to be brutal. I can't show you mercy. It's death or nothing."

"So bring honor to your district. Show everybody in Panem that the Careers aren't just killing machines. Make a smart choice. You can't tell me that you want to die," I say, hoping I'm right. Above us, the sky seems to be getting slightly brighter.

"Going home dishonorably is worse than death," he says quickly in a low voice, a flash of his old pride appearing in his face.

"Dishonorably," I repeat. "Alright, well, say I could give you an honorable way out where we both live," I ask. "What about that?" The rain is definitely lighter now – they've figured out that we're using the noise to talk unheard, so I try to get my words out quicker. "If I can give you that, will you take it?"

He frowns at me, legitimately unsure. "I don't know," he whispers as the rain slows even more.

At least he isn't trying to lie. And I wasn't lying, either, when I said I'm done with the killing. Although I can't think about it for too long, Peeta is dead. I didn't think that would ever happen, and suddenly, I'm worn out.

I need to make everybody watching think there's still something going on, some action for them to anticipate so they give me just a little more time to work on Cato. So I pull him closer and whisper, "Try to escape. Hit me. Whatever. Be convincing." I take the knife down so I won't slit his throat.

He doesn't need any more prompting. Like he's been planning it, he flings the other end of his leg shackles around my ankle and pulls, knocking me off-balance. Then he punches me with one enormous fist. My face whips back and immediately, where he hit me feels like it's on fire. I fall backwards onto my hands, the wind knocked out of me, but I fight back. I stomp on the end of the chain, then grab it and yank with all of my weight. That throws him off enough for my second pull to knock him down completely. Then, I climb on top of him, holding the knife to whatever I can reach. Finally, I get it back on his neck and he stops fighting.

We're both panting. He gives me a slight questioning look – did he do what I wanted? – and I nod, barely. Before anything else can happen, though, the ground beneath us shakes, and there's a grinding rumble from the cave.

Oh no.

"Up," I say, pretending to be ordering him around, but I actually kind of trust him while I have this knife in my hand, so I don't keep it pressed against him one hundred percent of the time, just so he can get up faster. Then I escort him to the cave. He stumbles down into it. "What changed?" I ask cautiously.

"The metal thing moved," he calls back up.

"Alright, back off. I'm coming down." Warily, I slide down myself. He's safely several feet away, looking at the very deep hole most of the water from the rainstorm has gone down into. "Sit down," I say, wearily, and he sits.

And then I realize that my arrows are sitting right there. He easily could've grabbed one and tried to come at me with it, but he didn't. A little late, adrenaline sparks into my system and I can feel my pulse in my head. Everything's sharper when I look at it: Cato, the damp stone, and the iron ring that's now out of the hole and embedded into what's left of the floor. I realize quicker than I normally would that the way the loop is positioned, there's very little of the remaining cave floor that he won't be able to reach, even chained up.

But I don't think about that for very long. I relock his ankle cuffs through the iron loop and push everything against the cave wall in the only place he can't reach. I duck outside again to find somewhere new to hide the key, ultimately deciding on in my boot, between the leather outside and the lining. He shouldn't be able to find that anytime soon. Then I go back inside, preparing myself for anything.

He isn't trying to get the arrows this time, either. Instead, he's reaching into the water. Something's floating in it, another package with a sodden parachute, which he snags and pulls towards him. "What's that?" I ask, taking it from him.

"It came like right when the rain started," he said.

I peek inside to make sure there's nothing lethal, then toss the canister back to him. I have my own I've gotta check out. I lean back and crack open mine. Inside is a slip of paper wrapped around something small, and another, larger piece of paper. First, I look at the big note.

_Congratulations! Only two left. May the odds be ever in your favor._

Nothing special about the message. The only thing that sets it apart is that Prim wrote it. It's her wobbly cursive – she tried her best to make it look good.

Inside my chest, my heart kind of breaks. Clenching my jaw, I unroll the other piece of paper, the one from Haymitch.

_Don't die. Give them something to root for. -H_

I look at what was inside the paper: a stopwatch on a lanyard, counting down, about four hours left on it. He's telling me how much time I have left before they make us fight. It's not anywhere near enough time, and I kind of start to panic.

To distract myself, I look over at Cato. He's holding a piece of paper like mine from Prim, looking at it with a fierce glare. "What'd you get?" I ask, and when he looks up, I see that his eyes are wet, but he's not crying.

"Note from my little sister," he said roughly.

"And?" He doesn't answer right away, so I roll my eyes and pick up my bow and an arrow, draw it, pointing it at him. "I'll shoot through your shoulders. You'll live, and you'll answer my question."

"Right." Reluctantly, he shows me a smaller piece of paper with a note from his mentor.

_Surprise her. Go for the throat._

Yikes. I don't even want to know who his mentor is.

I know he got something else, something like my stopwatch, but I don't just ask him, because that'll put him in a terrible situation; if he tells me, I'm nearly positive his district would look down on that. If he doesn't, I'll look weak. I'm pretty sure it's a key, though, judging from how he keeps glancing at his cuffs.

I give him the note back, take a quick look at his message from his sister – it's the same words as mine, clearly written by someone young. They're playing with us, trying to remind us of our motivation for killing each other, and letting our mentors give us the tools to win. There's just one problem with that. They don't know about my plan.

The stopwatch beeps in my hand, and the hairs on the back of my neck prick nervously. It's not anywhere near zero yet, just at a random time a little less than four hours, but it's beeping urgently at me.

Haymitch wouldn't have sent me a broken gift.

Something's wrong.

I arrive at this conclusion in seconds, sling my pack and quiver on my back, loop the lanyard around my neck. "I'll be back." As I say that, I change my mind. "No, come with me." I pull the key out of my boot – so much for that hiding place – and unlock one foot, enough for him to stand and move. "Get outside, quickly," I say, and he nods. I follow him up with my bow half-drawn, jumpy as all hell.

We stand there for a second and I scan the woods around us. Cato tries to talk, but I stop him, and listen. Something in the leaves is rustling, something that sounds small but isn't. First it's on the left – I turn to face it, pointing the arrow at it, but it's already moved again. The rustling gets louder. "D'you have a key?" I whisper to him, and at this point, I don't care who's listening.

He hesitates. "Yeah."

"Get out. Now. Something's coming." True, he could hurt me, but I'm not leaving him helpless here while some unknown predator comes towards us.

He spits a key into his hand and starts working on his cuffs, but I'm already watching the woods around us. The rustling is louder, and distinctly coming from one place at a time, which seems to imply there's only one thing that might be a threat, but I'm not going to count on anything.

There's a terrifying beat where nothing happens. Then I can finally see what's running towards us. It's another one of the muttations, growling and snarling and moving frighteningly fast.

"Is that-" Cato starts to ask, his voice cracking. He's out of his feet cuffs already.

I stop him. "Get out," I say, taking a sec to look him straight in the eyes, then repeat it. "Get out." He nods and tries to get one of the keys into his wrist cuff, but his hand is shaking too badly. "Focus!" I shout impatiently.

"I'M TRYING," he roars back. Finally, he gets one of his wrists out and starts on the other. But it's too late, the dog's about fifty feet away. I take a deep breath and ready myself to shoot it in the skull, but then I see its face.

It's Peeta, oh no, it's Peeta, his blond hair, his blue eyes, and a dog's mouth full of teeth. For a few seconds, I'm frozen, just seconds, but they're crucial seconds, where he moves from fifty feet away to ten feet. And he's snarling at me, growling, about to rip my face off after he tears through Cato first.

Cato's arms are finally free, and he darts away, throwing the cuffs onto the ground. I know I should follow his example. I even know I should go the opposite direction, to distract the Peeta dog. But I can't move. I'm stuck there, staring at the face that isn't Peeta's but is.

Ten feet, five feet, and then it swerves away, following Cato and making no move to attack me even though I'm the one standing completely still. I want to believe it's some final vestige of Peeta's personality, refusing to hurt me, but I know it's not. I know that's not him; it's a fake, created version of him to throw me off, make the game interesting. But I still can't shoot him.

Cato circles back towards me, running fast and shouting at me. "Shoot!"

I want to.

I need to.

I can't.

So I run after him. No telling what will happen if we get separated, and I can't take that risk. Plus, I can't think of anything else to do. I can't think at all; it's like my brain short-circuited when I saw the man-made replica of Peeta's face, and all I can do is run.

Luckily, the dog doesn't seem interested in me at all. It barely looks at me. All it cares about is Cato, going after him no matter where he is. And Cato runs pretty impressively for being chained up for hours and injured, but he tires out eventually. He puts on a final burst of speed, and then stops running abruptly.

I get to him before the mutt does. "What are you doing?" I say breathlessly, tugging on his arm, but he isn't moving, hands on his knees, breathing hard. In the daylight, the huge bruise on his back is bright and painful-looking. "C'mon, run!"

"I… I can't," he rasps.

"Climb a tree! Something!" I urge, pulling harder.

He gives me a small smile. "Not very good at that. Look, they want me dead, it's obvious. They want you to win. Go. Go!" he says louder when I don't move, and he pushes me.

"No," I say firmly. "Nobody else is dying."

"You're insane," he muttered.

"You're in danger. Get behind me," I mutter, facing the dog. If we confuse it, maybe it'll explode or something.

And then it's running at us, closer than I expected. Somewhere along the line, I must have dropped my bow, so I pull an arrow out of my quiver and hold it tightly. "What are you doing?" Cato demands, but stays behind me.

Mutt-Peeta hesitates when he sees me, but then keeps running, closer and closer, until I can see his bloody teeth. I don't move an inch, just keep looking at him, telling myself over and over again that it's not Peeta at all. Not him. Not at all.

"Katniss," I hear Cato say, but he sounds too far away, just like the dog that is NOT Peeta is too close. I can feel his breath on my face, and then he slaps me aside with one gigantic paw and goes for Cato.

"NO!" The word is ripped ragged from my throat. I don't know what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, but suddenly, I leap in front of the mutt again. There's something in my eyes – I reach up and swipe it out of the way, vaguely aware that my hand comes away red. Again, that face that looks so much like Peeta's is inches from me for a moment. And then I stab him, straight in the eye. I feel the arrow hit the back of his eye socket, go through to his brain, and he howls – IT howls.

Now I'm crying, and I can't see very well, but I can see enough to pull the arrow out and plunge it back in again, into the other eye. Blood's pouring from both sockets now, and it jumps backwards, howling and pawing at its eyes.

I don't get to see what happens next, because something pulls at my arm and I fall backwards into a hard chest. It's Cato. I try to twist away, but he holds onto me at the elbow. "No, don't watch this," he says firmly, and he sounds so in charge. I know it'd feel really good to just give in, listen to what he says, but I don't, not yet.

"I don't need to be protected," I say, but my voice accidentally shakes, and there are tears pouring down my face, so somehow, I don't think I'm very convincing.

"I know," he says simply, and turns me around so I'm looking up at him, not the dying mutt with the face of the boy who loved me.

I resist for as long as I can – a few seconds maybe –then fall into him. He puts one massive arm around me and swiftly pulls the knife out of my belt. I barely have time to be scared before he aims and throws it over my shoulder. There's a sharp whimper, and then nothing more.

In the silence that follows, I close my eyes and rest my forehead on his chest. "That's the second time I've killed him," I say softly.

"That's the second time you've saved me," he answers after a second.

"Yeah."

"Maybe you shouldn't have."

I'm suddenly too tired to realize how frightening that statement should be. I'm cold, too, and he's warm, so I unconsciously press myself closer to him. "Maybe," I mumble. My lips are heavy, my whole face is, in fact, so I stop talking and close my eyes. "Gimme a sec," I sigh.

The ground gives way beneath my feet, and then I'm being carried. "You're bleeding," someone says.

I want to answer, but I can't open my mouth, or eyes, or anything. Briefly, I wonder if he's going to kill me, and then I don't think about anything else for a while.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: How open would you guys be to having a chapter from Cato's perspective? I think it might be fun to write, and it might clarify a few motivations that are unclear right now. Let me know in reviews. **

When I wake up, I do it all at once, like I've learned to in these games, but I don't move for a second, to assess my situation.

I'm not tied up. I'm not missing any limbs. I do have a killer headache, but that's the only problem I can feel. So I open my eyes, do my best to focus on the greyish ceiling above me. Everything remains pleasantly fuzzy and foggy. "Hey," I say to the stone, and I imagine that I can hear echoes.

The last time I woke up disoriented, Rue was with me. She changed my leaves twice. She looked like Rue. She's dead.

It's several seconds after I first decide to sit up that I actually manage to get myself propped up a little bit on my elbows. I realize there's something on my head, covering one eye, which accounts for some of the blur. Tentatively, I touch it – a bandage type thing, a thick pad over the area around my eye, and tape holding it down. It covers almost half my face.

It takes me an alarming amount of time to put these things together. I need to be sharper; these games aren't over. But I can't make myself pull it together any faster, and my eyes still won't focus.

"You okay?"

I jump, which hurts my head so bad I wince, and that hurts even more. Eventually, though, I turn enough to see who spoke.

Cato. Of course it was Cato, he's the only other person alive in this damn arena. He's sitting on the floor by the water hole, and he's got his shirt and jackets on, something in my brain observes. I almost catch myself being disappointed, and then I'm horrified. Now is not the time for me to be loopy.

"I'm fine," I say, trying to keep myself from slurring. Something very important is pushing at my brain, demanding to be remembered, and I close my eyes so it can surface. Then I've got it. With clumsy fingers, I fumble for the stopwatch around my neck and squint at the display. About an hour and a half left. "I was out for two hours?" I demand loudly.

"No, just like an hour," he shakes his head.

Even half-asleep, I can put together what this means: something changed outside. It's coming down to the wire. Haymitch wants me to act as soon as possible. Another reason I need to get my foggy brain together.

I stand up carefully, holding myself upright with the cave wall. My legs are shaking bad, so I lean my whole body against the cool stone and close my eyes – or eye, really. "Did you do this?" I ask distinctly, pointing in the general direction of my eye bandage.

"Yeah. Sponsors sent the stuff. They really want you alive," he said. I can't tell if he's upset, impressed, or joking with me. Does he even know how to joke?

I take one unsteady step away from the wall and immediately know that I won't be able to walk anywhere. "River," I say, pushing my hands on the rock to keep myself upright. "Get me into the river."

He stands up quickly and offers his arm to me. I take it and kind of fall into him. But that's okay, he's like a wall. I make a very spirited attempt to walk, but he ends up essentially carrying me to the edge of the river. "I could drown you," he said, half to himself.

"Yep. Or you can let me do it for you." I try to walk into the water.

He holds me back "What?"

"Into the middle. Come with me." I'm having trouble talking in more than sentence fragments, and I hope he can understand me. "Come _on_," I say louder when he doesn't move.

He shakes his head, then tightens his grip on me and we wade in. "Where are we going?" he asks me, sounding annoyed.

"Middle. Where the water's fast. Loud." My feet are on the riverbed, but I'm not even trying to walk anymore. He's got one arm around my waist and somewhere along the line, my arm has gotten around his shoulders. In this position, he carries me into the middle of the water, where the water is up to my mid-stomach. Then, he turns me around and holds me at arms length. His hands go all the way around my arms. I am definitely not going to drown while he's holding me like this.

"Okay, what's going on?" he says, but I'm not listening. I'm trying to hold my head up straight, because my neck muscles are suddenly gone. "Katniss," he says roughly. "Look at me." I do my best. "Why are we in the middle of the river?"

"Can't hear us here. Listen." I drag my arm up out of the water and put it over his face, my fingers cold on his mouth. "Listen," I repeat. "Do you want to die?"

"No," he says through my fingers.

"Do you want me to die?"

"That's not-"

"Just answer the question. Don't have. We don't, I mean. Time."

"Would I win?" he asks after a second, moving my hand off his mouth.

"Yeah, both of us."

"What if I said yes?"

"Then I have a plan."

"You can't even talk."

"Yes. I. Can," I say, making an effort to enunciate clearly. "And I have a plan. But you have to trust me." I take a deep breath and swallow part of the river. "And I know that you just want to win, I know. That's… that's your life. But you can have your life back _and_ I can have mine. Is that…"

"I have to trust you," he says dubiously.

"Yeah." I nod clumsily. "What happened to my face?"

"Dog scratched it. Another inch and you'd only have one eye," he states.

"That's not good."

"No, it's not. And you're in the middle of a river. You'll die if I let go of you. That's not good either," he says fiercely.

"That matters to you a lot," I sigh.

"And not at all to you, apparently."

"Are you trying to convince yourself to kill me?"

"No, I just…" He doesn't know how to finish this statement.

"No. You're not," I say sternly.

"I don't get it – do you trust me?" he says, unsure. The word "trust" sounds weird coming from him, like he's never said it before.

"Do I have a choice?" I snort, and then giggle, because I sound funny to myself.

"Katniss," he says, exasperated.

"Okay. Okay, no, I'll be serious." I stifle my laughter. "I have to trust you right now. I don't want to. You're a killing machine, you… could tear me apart. If you wanted to. You could've let me bleed to death," I say, forcing myself to pay attention to what's going on. It feels like my brain is trying to float away from my head. My vision flickers black for a second.

"Yeah? And why haven't I?" he demands, staring at me intensely.

"Because you want more than they offer you. I'm freezing. Can we get out?"

I do my very best to get my eyes to his and see how he reacts to what I said. I get a blurry image of him staring thoughtfully at me for a second, and then he pulls me closer. "Hold on to me," he says, pulling me closer to him and I listen to what he says. I put my arms around his waist, and look up at him with my good eye. But then I can't tell who I'm looking at – are those Peeta's blue eyes? His blond hair? I can't tell. It's all fuzzy.

"Peeta?" I say out loud, trying to figure it out.

"Yep," the boy holding me says after a second.

"There isn't a lot of time. We've gotta… we've gotta do-"

He cuts me off. "You need to rest. Probably have a concussion."

"No, when the clock runs out…" I reach for the stopwatch, but it's smushed between my chest and his. "The clock, when it runs out we're gonna die. Well, I'm going to die, probably."

"You're not going to die."

"Don't be stupid and sacrifice yourself," I say, frowning. The water is only around my ankles now, but I'm soaked through and really cold. "You're too good."

"I'm not going to. You said you had a plan."

He's not cold at all, so I lean into him as he carries me away from the river, putting my cheek against the middle of his chest. Something about this situation feels very familiar. "I do," I say obstinately. "I have a very good plan."

"What is it?"

I shake my head. "No, I can't tell you. Not yet. Where're we going?"

"Look, just go to sleep. I'll wake you up." His voice is melting in the air, dripping.

"Before the numbers go to zero. On the stopwatch," I add. "Am I making sense?"

"In a weird way. I'll wake you up, I promise."

I realize gradually that this boy's voice isn't anything like Peeta's. Also, Peeta is dead. "Peeta's dead," I say in wonder. I feel the hard ground beneath me and then I'm lying on the cave floor.

A brief pause. "Yeah, he is." He starts to say something, then stops. "Just go to sleep, Katniss. I'll wake you up."

"Okay," I agree, eyes already half-closed. "But the time changes. So you have to keep an eye on it. Here, take it. Take it." I try to pull over my head, but it gets stuck on my hair.

Then, huge hands are on mine, gently untangling the lanyard from my braid and taking it off. "I've got it. And I'll keep an eye on the time."

I have to tell him what Haymitch said. It's important for him to know part of the plan, so he doesn't screw it up. "We have to give 'em… something. To root for," I say, forcing my eyes open long enough to stare at him intently. "Something to root for," I repeat clearly. "D'you understand me?"

"Yep. Sleep. I'll wake you up."

Finally, I listen to him and let my eyes close. It's such a relief to let darkness wash over me in waves and just stop feeling and worrying for a while. And as I'm falling asleep, I realize how awesome it is that I'm too incoherent to know exactly how stupidly vulnerable I'm letting myself be.

Nothing hurts me while I'm out, though. I sleep deeply, without a single dream until something touches my shoulder. I jump and open my eyes, sitting up so fast that I'm dizzy for a second. "What's going on?" I say, slightly panicked.

Cato's sitting against the wall next to me, his face inscrutable. He holds up my stopwatch. "Fifteen minutes left. I think this is broken."

I shake my head. "Nope. Haymitch wouldn't do that. It changes when the Gamemakers change their minds. Why, what happened?" I'm significantly less fuzzy than I was before I went to sleep, and I'm really grateful for that, though the pad over my eye still makes seeing difficult.

"The time went up, to two hours, then down to a half hour, and then back up again to an hour, and just counted down from there." He hands the stopwatch to me and regards me with a blank expression. "Are you more awake now?"

"Definitely. Did I say anything stupid?" My memory of what happened between the two times I slept today is disturbingly sparse.

He makes a face that's somewhere between a smile and a frown. "We'll talk about that later. So what's your plan?"

Right. My plan.

I have a fuzzy recollection of being in the river, and the bottom of my braid and my clothes are damp. Anxiously, I feel inside my pants pocket for the nightlock. It's all there, not even wet. Pockets with zippers are the best invention ever. "Outside," I tell him. "More cameras."

He doesn't argue; he just gets up and hands me my bow and quiver, and he puts on my backpack. I discover I'm not even a little scared that he'll run away with it, thought that fact itself is kind of scary. Now that I can think, I can't believe that I'm here with him, semi-trusting him, counting on him. He's a killer. He could eat me alive. Less than a day ago, he was my biggest enemy in these games. And now, we're almost allies. He's trusting me, and for some reason, I kind of trust him.

"So what exactly happened to my eye?" I ask him, feeling the pad over the whole right side of my face.

"You jumped in front of a mutt for me and it almost clawed your face off," he says flatly. "Why'd you do that?"

"He was going to kill you," I begin.

"Doing you a favor."

"Not really," is all I can think of to say.

"Why's that?"

I look at the stopwatch in my hand – it's frozen completely, not moving. I can imagine the Capitol watching us with baited breath – nothing like this has ever happened before, two enemy tributes standing together, calmly talking and not killing each other.

Haymitch's message echoes in my head; _Give them something to root for._ I'm going to do my best to obey, but even after everything that's happened, I can't count on his cooperation. This could all be a trick. He may be waiting to kill me until the most dramatic moment.

But it's now or never. I hold tightly to my bow and arrows, lower my eyes, and do my best to sound shy and embarrassed. "I couldn't watch someone else I care about die."

Cato's eyes widen. I imagine I can hear the nation-wide gasp. And I'm about ready to die from pure embarrassment. My desperate hope is that he gets I'm doing this for the show. If anyone would have a chance of understanding these stupid games, it would be him. He trained for this his whole life.

Right now, though, I can't read his face. "Oh," is all he says.

Another glance at the stopwatch. Still frozen.

"What about your Lover-Boy?" he says flatly.

I can't burst into tears at the thought of Peeta like I really want to. That will ruin the show, and at least one of us will die. Calmly, I take a deep, shaky breath. "He's dead," I say softly. Then, louder, I start in on my actual message. "He's dead, and for absolutely no reason. Look at this. Look at what they make you give. We both lost our partners here." I pause. "You saved my life; I can't kill you. So do it, you can win." I'm about to make my biggest gamble. If it goes right, though, they'll be rooting for me, and then they'll root for him, too.

I turn the knife around in my hand and hold it out to him. And he takes it, looks down at the blade. "This was Clove's," he says.

I don't answer, staring at him. I try to be calm, despite the adrenaline pumping through me and sharpening my senses. He shifts on his feet and I flinch, then try to hide it. He looks at me, smiles a little bit, and then throws the knife with a quick flick of the wrist. This time, I do jump, very noticeably, but it just sinks safely into the ground at my feet.

And then his hand closes around mine. His fingers are big, rough, and scarred. He's got strong hands, deadly hands, and I'm a strange combination of scared and comforted. "Not you," he says in a low voice, and I can't tell if he means it or not. "So what are we going to do?"

I slip my free hand in my jacket pocket and close my hand on the nightlock, making a fist around it, then pull it out and show it to him. "Eat these. At least we'll be have someone with us in the end."

"Together," he says, looking at the berries in my hand. I don't know if he understands what I'm asking him to do, how much he needs to trust me right now, and I don't know if that matters. Because his hand is still around mine, and he's definitely not killing me, even though I gave him every opportunity.

"Together," I nod, holding the berries out to him. "On three."

He takes half the nightlock from me. "Okay," he says, holding tighter to my hand.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Since I was born."

"One. Two. Th-"

There's the sound of microphone feedback, then someone says hastily, "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the 74th Hunger Games Katniss Everdeen and Cato Validus."

I look at Cato to try to figure out how I feel. I don't know if I'm surprised, relieved, sad, or thrilled. I know I should be some combination of most of them, but all I feel is empty and numb.

All Cato looks is surprised. "We won," he says softly.

"Congratulations," I say, letting go of his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Alright, so I changed a few of the post-games things. The final interview I had happen first, right off the bat, while their memories were still fresh. The crowning ceremony happens much like the opening parade. I hope none of this is a deal breaker for ya'll. The Cato P.O.V will come next, coincidentally about when this story's going to hit 50 review. **

**Thanks again for all the positive reinforcement! One even said I changed someone's mind about Cato/Katniss, which was super encouraging. Please, let me know if you think I'm slipping, but I'm going to try to keep this fun and exciting. Enjoy!**

Everything around me fades out. I barely feel awake, like I'm sleepwalking through the whole trip out of the arena. Cato helps me up into the hovercraft, and then we're separated.

They take me away and make me into a human again, cleaning off the blood and smoothing out my skin. There's only one thing I refuse to let them change – when they start to fix the claw marks over my eye, I twist and scream and generally throw a fit until they leave it alone. But I let them do whatever they want to me besides that, stick those tubes into me wherever they want, put me in horrid-smelling baths, because there's really no reason to fight. Everybody's going to hate me at home. I killed Peeta. He's dead. And for some unfathomable reason, I'm not.

Once we're back on the ground, I'm whisked away to a sterile room where Flavius, Octavia, and Venia are waiting excitedly. They chatter about the state of my nails, my hair, my everything, working themselves into an over-excited lather. I don't have the energy to be annoyed with anything they say, because all I can think of is that Peeta's dead.

Then Cinna walks in while they fuss about me in a chair. "She looks great," he says firmly. I glance at myself in the mirror and realize I do. Somewhere along the line while they were complaining about me, they put my hair up in a complicated series of loops, swept dark makeup over my face, and made me look radiant, even though all I feel is dead. Even the four parallel scars over my right eyebrow and cheek look good, giving me a battle-hardened air that is so appropriate I can barely believe it. "You can leave now," Cinna says politely, but it's obviously an order.

Now we're alone in the room together. I can't look at him. He knew Peeta, too, and I killed him. "Katniss," he says gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Nothing." I keep my eyes on the ground.

"I know losing Peeta must've been hard on you," he began to say.

"Not losing him. Killing him," I correct him. "I killed him."

Cinna nods solemnly. "The makeup is waterproof, just in case. Stand up." I obey robotically, and then he takes my head in his hands like he did before the game. "He was a wonderful boy. But I bet on you," he says slowly. "You came out of that alive. And I couldn't be more proud of you."

His words are kind, as usual, but I don't have enough left inside me to be comforted. "What am I wearing?" I ask woodenly.

He regards me thoughtfully, then lets me change the subject. "I made the perfect dress for you," he says, smiling a little.

And he's right. The dress is spectacularly sad. Instead of hot and fiery, this dress is dark and muted. The skirt is black as pitch, fading into a soft grey in the bodice. No sleeves, but semi-opaque lace trails down my arms like tendrils of smoke. I'm wearing what I am: a burned-out, broken remnant of my former self.

He makes a few final adjustments, then puts his hand on my shoulder. "You can do this," he says, and escorts me towards the stage. I walk stiffly, like I'm surrounded by fog, doing my best to not think, because I have no idea how I'm going to talk and answer nosy questions about how I feel about these damned games. And then I register belatedly that Haymitch is standing backstage with Cato and his mentor, waiting for me.

Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms and start to cry. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic.

"I'm a terrible person," I hiccup into his shoulder. "I can't do this. I can't."

"You can, and you're going to," he says firmly, then adds, "Though it would've been easier if you'd just killed that Career while you had the chance."

"I couldn't, though, he's just a kid, and he trained his whole life for this. He never had a choice." I'm talking so fast, I'm not sure what I'm saying.

Haymitch stops me, putting his hand over my mouth. "Listen," he says. His breath smells faintly of liquor, which is weird. Usually it smells strongly of every alcohol. He's almost sober right now. "Listen," he repeats. "Did you save him for you? Or did you save him for Peeta?"

"I saved him for himself. From himself," I say, and as I say it, I realize that this is the truth. I can stand a little taller, because now I know something for sure; I did something selfless, something Peeta would've done.

"There's no place for that in the games," Haymitch shakes his head.

"You told me to," I say in confusion. "Your note, about doing what he would."

"Yeah," he admits after a second, with no further explanation. "What about him, did he know what you got him into?" he asks, jerking his thumb at Cato. "Did he mean what he did, or was that gameplay?"

"I don't know." I can't look at Cato. Combination of embarrassment and fear, plus something else I can't name, similar to disgust but more like confusion. "Haymitch, I don't know anything," I say desperately, beginning to panic again.

"You're in mourning," he tells me firmly, making an effort to enunciate. "You made friends and didn't want to lose them. You're tired of the killing. Peeta was a childhood companion of yours and you couldn't handle the games after he died. You just wanted it all to be over. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. Why, is something wrong?" I say, trying to control my breathing.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea," he mumbles. "Snow thinks you're starting a rebellion." I guess he can see my renewed panic in my face, because his face softens, and he adds, "You did the right thing." He brushes the scars over my eye, tracing their length.

"You like them?" I smile shakily.

"Love 'em," he assures me, then he and Cato's mentor – a lethal woman with a shiny smile – are ushered to where they'll watch our interview.

I'm alone with Cato now, listening to Caesar recap the games. Nervously, I glance up at him. He's kept his scars, too; they curve dangerously across his cheek. And he's wearing a dark suit to complement my dress of smoke. I don't know if it was planned, but we'll present a unified front, and that's good. "Hi," I whisper.

"Hey." He looks at me, deadpan. "Do you know what we're going to say?"

"Not really. Did your mentor give you any advice?"

He looks darkly amused. "No, Enobaria kind of thinks I'm a failure now." He leaves me no chance to ask what that means. "So do you have a plan?"

"I'm supposed to be in mourning. I mean, I am, but I have to make sure to act it."

"And what about me?"

"Tell the truth," is the only advice I can give. That's what Peeta did. It worked well for him, until I killed him.

He looks slightly skeptical, but nods. "Alright." Hesitantly, his hand reaches for mine, but I don't think about that. I focus on how the sleeve of his jacket is exactly the shade of the body of my dress. And then I let him take my hand. For the show.

We're called out to the stage amongst screaming adulation. People are nearly hysterical, crying or laughing or some combination of the two. When Cato raises our entwined hands, they only get louder.

Caesar smiles at us genially, and as usual, I can glean nothing from his overly cheerful expression. "So, how do you feel?" he asks us once we've sat, with the air of somebody sharing secrets with a friend.

I answer for both of us. "Tired," I smile a little to soften the statement. It gets a laugh, for some reason, and Cato smiles too. It looks strange on his battle-scarred face, and I realize that I've never seen him smile like this before right now.

"I can only imagine," Caesar laughs. "So these games took an interesting turn towards the end – mind telling us a little about that?" he asks gesturing towards the audience.

As if we have a choice. I remind myself of my story, then speak. "Well, halfway though, my ally Rue died. And then, as you all know, my partner from District 12-"

"Peeta," Caesar stage-whispers, like maybe someone didn't get it.

"Peeta," I repeat after a second. "He died running from the mutations. And that was very difficult for me. I'd known him since…" I think back to the day when he threw me bread, saved my family. "Since forever. And after that, I didn't want to see anyone else die."

"And yet you were both willing to die there together rather than kill the other," he says curiously. "Can you explain that?"

"Y'know, I think Katniss pretty much summed it up," Cato says confidently. "We both lost our partners in the couple of hours before that night, and we'd had enough of that."

"Now, Cato, you were very confident for these games. Been well-prepared, one might say," Caesar says with a conspiratorial wink. "Were you not as ready as you thought you were after all?"

"Y'know, I think I was prepared. My mentor did a great job. But after Katniss saved my life, I couldn't turn around and kill her. It would be… dishonorable," he finishes, sounding very much the self-assured victor the Capitol deserves.

"And what about you, Katniss?" Caesar says, smiling at me. "Why didn't you ever just finish him off and win? You had multiple opportunities."

I did, and I almost wish I'd taken one of them, if it weren't for the warm hand around mine, the callused fingers holding me tight, keeping me together. "Some people want to win, whatever the cost. For me, it's never been worth it without the ones that I love in my life. Losing Peeta…" I pause to heave a deep sigh and blink away real tears. Cato's grip on my hands tightens just a little. "It was hard," I say finally. "And I knew I wouldn't be able to respect myself if I did something he wouldn't."

"Oh," Caesar frowns sympathetically. "And what would he have thought about your choice to show mercy?"

"Well, first of all, I wasn't showing mercy," I clarify. "It was a joint decision."

"Yes, but before that, when he was your prisoner. Why hold back?" he pushes. I have no answer for that, so he prompts, "Personal feelings got in the way?"

No no no. Oh God, no. Absolutely not. Embarrassed, I blush, immediately realize that makes me look more guilty, and blush harder. "No," I say, but it just sounds defensive.

"Oh?" he says, raising his eyebrows, looking intrigued.

"No, we're…" I sputter, thankful for the waterproof makeup. My eyes are welling up with tears again, indignant and angry. I loved Peeta. I'll always love him. I just realized this too late to tell him. But I can't say that.

"Neither of us know each other very well," Cato takes over. "We respect each other as fighters, and right now, there isn't anything more than that."

"Right now?" Caesar smirks, looking pointedly at our connected hands.

I nod coolly. If I open my mouth, I'll lose my composure completely. "Right now," Cato says firmly, and I'm very grateful that he's here with me.

I haven't been able to look at Haymitch during this whole exchange for fear of what I'll see in his face. I do manage to sneak a glance at him while we discuss our matching scars, and he nods at me with a slight smile. I'm doing okay.

Still, though, I'm not sure how well I actually did until I get offstage and lock my arms back around Haymitch. He's all I have left from home here, all that I can really trust. "Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers. Awkwardly, he pats me on the back a couple times until I let go. He's not used to emotional Katniss. Neither am I, for that matter.

Cato's kind of standing around behind me, his mentor nowhere to be seen. So I turn to say something to him. Haymitch cuts me off. "You took care of her out there," he says, his fiercest frown on his face. "I guess I should thank you for that."

"No problem," Cato says.

"Hold your horses. I just said I _should_ thank you. I'm still deciding if I will."

Haymitch is acting like he did the first day with us on the train, maybe even worse, and I don't understand. Except that I do, because I understand everything he does. It makes sense to be suspicious. I'm the crazy one, with my emotional suicide pacts and dead partners.

"Okay," Cato nods, and walks away, hands in his pockets.

"You don't have to be so mean," I tell Haymitch as we start to walk after him.

"You saved his life, sweetheart. That's as nice as he deserved. Now c'mon." He takes me up to the twelfth floor and into my bedroom. "Do you need help with all this?" he asks awkwardly, looking at my dress.

"No." I shake my head. So he leaves me there, sitting on the edge of my bed.

I don't change out of it right away, because it fits my feelings so well. If I could only wear Cinna's magnificent clothes all the time. But after five minutes of wallowing, I take a deep breath, put on loose black pants and a black sweater, and go into the bathroom. I wipe off the makeup, pick at the pins in my hair until it tumbles down my back, and then I start crying.

I said I was in mourning, but this is the first chance I've gotten to actually mourn. There was really no place for tears before now, not in the arena, not while getting ready for the interview, definitely not during the interview. Maybe it isn't appropriate for a victor to cry hysterically for the other dead tribute from their district, but I don't care. No one can see me. No one can hear my hysterical sobs. No one's here to watch my world fall apart.

After several minutes of hiccupping sobs, I wander out into the main room, looking for Haymitch. He's the only one who might understand exactly the heartache I'm feeling right now. But he's not there, he's in his room, with the door shut. He doesn't answer when I knock, doesn't open the door, and all I hear is the clinking of bottles.

I sleepwalk back through the apartment, not sure what I'm looking for but confident that I'll know when I find it. And I do know it's right when I end up in front of what had been Peeta's room.

My hand raises to knock, then falters when I remember there's absolutely no one in there, that no one will ever be in there. So I open the door and go in.

His bed is perfect and made, everything in order, nothing personal. I'm still looking for something, anything to make this emptiness inside go away, so I move to the closet. His clothes are still hanging there, mostly unworn. These would've been his clothes to wear if he'd won with me.

I'm getting desperate now. I bury my face in the clothes, looking for something that even smells like him, but all it smells like is sterile, and dead. So I go back to the bed, pull back the blankets. And there, it smells like him, like fresh bread and frosting and sunshine. He was everything good in the world, and he smelled like it.

I can't spend another second in that room, but I also can't stop breathing in deeply and pretending he just stepped out for a second, or maybe he's on the roof, thinking of ways to show the Capitol he's still him.

So, crying with renewed energy, I wrap up all the bedding and pillows into one giant bundle and carry it out to the window with a view like where we sat together the night before the games, then wrap myself in everything. I'm surrounded by soft down that smells of him, and I'm almost happy, even though I'm not done crying.

The city outside my window is beautiful, which doesn't help things, because then I start crying out of anger. It's not fair. I had to win – I knew that from the beginning – but I guess I somehow thought we'd both survive. We even had a chance, with the rule change, but no. He fell, because of the wound in his leg.

I saved his killer – both of them, actually. Me and Cato. We killed him, Cato with his sword and me just by existing. I guess it's some kind of poetic justice that we're the ones to survive, though. Of course, if the world was fair, we should've lost. Peeta was the best out of us. He didn't deserve to die. But nothing's ever fair.

This is the first time I've really cried since my dad died, too, so it brings up all of those emotions. It's like a spiral of self-loathing and tears that has no end in sight. I might never leave this window, these blankets. I might never have to face reality.

At some point, there's a knock on the door. I don't get up to answer it – whatever it is, it's not going to be anything good. Even if Prim's standing right outside the door, waiting to congratulate me for winning for her, I won't be happy. I don't know if I'll even be able to look at her, I'm so ashamed.

So I don't move. Whoever it is keeps knocking insistently every few seconds, refusing to just go away. For the first time, I realize that nobody's here with me but Haymitch; not my styling team, not a single Avox. Just the two of us, broken and ugly.

Eventually, Haymitch stumbles through the living room to the front door, holding on to walls for support. He opens the door. "The hell are you doing here," I hear him slur. There's a soft answer I don't pay attention to. "Yeah? Why's that?" He cuts off the other person. "Doesn't even matter. You listen to me. I won those games. I can still lay you out if I need to, and I will. D'ya understand me?" He's very, very drunk, but even more serious. I'd almost be scared if I wasn't so pathetic and sad.

"Hey, sweetheart." Suddenly, he's standing next to me at the window, reeking of booze, but his eyes are soft, and his hand on my blanket-covered shoulder is gentle. "Cato's here," he says.

"What for?" I ask, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.

"Dunno. Ask him. I'm not sober enough to handle this." He pauses, then kind of pulls me into him, patting my shoulder awkwardly. "'M sorry. I shouldn't… I'm the mentor, I _should_ handle this."

"No, it's okay, you loved him, too," I say, crying again a little.

"Yeah," he says gruffly. "Well, do you wanna see this kid or not?"

"I don't know. Figure it out for me."

He kisses the top of my head roughly and lets go of me. "You shouldn't be alone with this," he mutters.

"So stay with me," I say, trying not to beg.

"No. You don't want me here. We'll talk later," he promises, taking a swig out of the bottle in his other hand, and he stumbles away before I can argue with that. I start to cry again, pressing the back of my hand against my mouth so I don't make any noise. I'm trying to be soft for Haymitch – I don't want him to know how bad it is – but I never thought for a minute that he'd actually let Cato in.

I guess he's more drunk than I thought, though, because I hear footsteps coming towards me that are steady and firm, definitely not Haymitch. "Katniss," Cato says hesitantly, standing at my side, slightly behind me.

"What?" I sniff, doing my best to sound like someone who definitely is not crying. Hastily, I wipe my eyes again, but I'm really too miserable to be that embarrassed. He's seen me look worse than this, anyways. "Why are you here?"

"Uh. It's better than sitting with Enobaria and listening to her pick apart everything I did for the past week or whatever. Unless you don't want me here."

I don't want him here, but I don't want to be alone, so I kind of shrug, maybe shake my head, and don't really answer. Instead, I stare out the window again, clenching my teeth and doing my best to not break down again.

After a second, he sits across from me in the window, one knee up and the other foot underneath that leg. And he reminds me of Peeta so much that I can't look at him, even though logically, I know they look nothing alike. It's just this window, this smell surrounding me in the blanket, this view. All of it is so very much Peeta's and mine and dead.

"So what are you doing?" he asks, and he almost sounds like that boy in the cave, the one who fixed up my eye so I wouldn't bleed to death and sat with me to make sure I'd wake up. I've realized now that I don't know him; he's a career, but that's not it. He's a brother and a son, a tribute and a victor. He's protective and strong, brutal and angry. He's complex, and I underestimated him, but I don't trust him.

So I answer with the simplified truth. "Figuring out how I can go home, after everything that's happened."

"Why, has twelve never had a victor?" he frowns. "Except for the drunk guy."

"Well, yeah, but that's not the problem," I say slowly, then decide to be honest. It's not like this is some big secret. "Peeta's dead. And it's my fault. I did it."

I do start crying then, very quietly, and I pull Peeta's blanket closer around me. Briefly, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Sunshine, cookies, boy.

He speaks after a long silence, surprising me. "It wasn't just you," he says in a low voice. "I cut his leg. He fell because of that. Right?"

"Why would you say that?"

"What?" He's confused, and looks at me, frowning.

"Don't. Don't try to make this not my fault and be nice and win my trust. I know the games aren't over yet," I say harshly, clenching my fists around the blanket. "I killed him. I did it. And now I have to deal with it. You were just doing what you were made to do."

"I'm not trying to play the game," he says after a second. "I'm not even good at that, that was Clove's thing."

"Nice, nice move," I say sarcastically. "Bring up _your_ dead partner to get sympathy from me. Acting nice – why'd you even come here? To mess with my head?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"I thought… I don't know," he says, looking out the window. "I can go. I'm sorry, you're trying to figure things out, you're so… I shouldn't have come." He gets up to go, towering over me.

Something weird possesses me, though, and I reach up and catch his arm. He could totally pull away if he wanted, but he stops, looks down at me. "If you try to bring me down, I'll destroy you," I warn him. "I'm the girl on fire. You have no chance."

"Okay," he nods. Doesn't even try to deny it.

"Sit back down. I mean, you can if you want," I correct myself, then realize he's already started to obey. I say something, just to stop this awkward moment where I was kind of just a jerk. "So you kept your scars?"

"Yeah." He reaches up and rubs them. "I convinced them I'd look more tough with them, like Enobaria's gold teeth." I've heard about her, now that I think about it, I just hadn't connected the dots before. She was the one who bit another tribute's neck open. After her games, the Capitol gave her sharpened gold teeth instead of her real ones. "Is that basically what you said?"

"No, I just threw a fit until they got tired of telling me no," I say. It sinks in what I just said, and a giggle escapes me accidentally. "Sorry. That makes me sound terrible."

Cato smiles a little at me, but it's not condescending at all. "Nah, no, it's fine. Whatever it takes, right?"

"Right." I continue to giggle.

"But why'd you want to keep them?" he asks after a second. "You don't need the image boost."

"No…" I say, taken slightly off-guard by the strange complement. "…but I like not being perfect. I want something to help me remember what happened in the arena. I need to remember. The games changed me," I add after a moment of thought. "On the inside. And I guess I want to see that on the outside."

"Wow," he says, staring at me. "You're…"

"I'm what?"

"Not who I thought," he finally decides.

"Same for you," I say, staring back out the window. "Are you sure you're not just different because I saved your life and you feel guilty or something? Because I was really convinced you were pretty much an asshole."

He laughs once, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I saved your life, too. Don't you feel guilty?" he changes the subject.

"No. I'm trying…" I start crying again, even though I'm biting down on my bottom lip to stop myself. "I'm trying not to feel anything," I finally get out.

"Right." He looks away uncomfortably from me, back out the window. And try as I might, even though I know I really don't want to cry in front of him, that I need to be strong and victorious, I can't stop.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say after like a minute of crying. "This is-"

"It's fine," he cuts me off. "It's not your fault. It's okay."

Except that it isn't okay, nothing's okay, nothing will ever be okay, because Peeta's dead. And the instant that thought pops into my head, I start crying harder, hunching my shoulders and shaking with sobs. I keep my head down so I can't see how Cato must be looking at me.

"Katniss," he says after a silence that seems to last forever.

"What," I choke out, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying to calm myself.

He doesn't say anything, just reaches out to me, offering me his hand. I lean forward and take it, unwilling to stretch too far out of Peeta's blanket, and then he pulls me over towards him. And I let him. I let him put one giant arm around me once I'm close enough and lean me against him, still cocooned in my blanket.

I should be freaked out about this, or embarrassed at the very least, but I'm not. I just curl up into him and keep crying. He keeps his arm around me the whole time, doesn't say another word as I sob.

It's so relieving to just let him be the strong one. That's exactly what I need right now. If he can do this for me, it's tempting to think that maybe he and I could be sort of friends.

By the time I calm down enough to inhale, I don't just smell boy and sunshine and bread, I smell Cato: metal and soap and the clean, fake scent of the Capitol. That last one is associated with everything bad that's happened in the past few days, but somehow on him, it's not terrible and traumatizing. It's safe, strong, and strangely comforting.

Finally, I subside into very unsteady, shuddering breaths, shaking in my blanket against him. "I'm so sorry," I say, voice impressively steady. "I don't even know you, we're, we're not-"

"It's fine," he says flatly, but something sounds strange. It occurs to me that he might be crying, too. I don't comment on it, though. That seems like a really stupid thing to point out.

We sit there in silence together, me still huddled up against his side. I feel him hesitantly lean his chin against my head, padded by the blanket. "It was never supposed to be like this," he mutters, barely audible.

I don't know what he means by it, but I know what that means to me, and he's so heartbreakingly right. Nobody I care about was supposed to die. Nobody else was supposed to live. I thought I could do the emotionless, manipulative thing without getting hurt, ever. But that's not how it works. I should've known that. "No. But now we have to deal with it, just…" I take a deep breath. "Just deal with it, somehow."

"That thing you said, do you remember?" he asks after a second. "'Look at what they make us give. Everything. I don't even know if I'll be able to go home."

"No, you will, you're a victor. You're set for life," I say in confusion.

"I know, and that's good. But I didn't do what I was supposed to; I didn't… kill you, or die in some acceptable way. Judging by Enobaria, I'm going to be… in trouble," he says, picking his words carefully.

"I'm… I'm sorry," I say, starting to cry again, but less hysterically than before.

"It's okay. I'd rather be alive than dead, so… I just figured this out. I mean, I always thought that death was good, honorable. It was all about bringing pride to my district, right? But that's just… nothing. I don't want to die," he says quietly, like that's a shameful secret.

"Yeah," is all I can say. "Yeah. Me neither." I stare out at the bright lights of the city, blurry and refracted by my tears. "Right now, I'm really glad I saved you," I say without thinking.

Mentally, I slap myself. Stupid thing to say. Superbly, unbelievably stupid. But then he answers.

"So am I."

I'm emotionally unstable right now, and I'm pretty sure he is, too, so that kind of explains what happens next. I sit up and twist around to hug him, throwing my arms around his neck and putting my face in the space between his neck and shoulder. He stiffens for a fraction of a second then holds me tight, wrapping his arms around me easily and resting his head on my shoulder, too. I'm essentially sitting in his lap right now, but it doesn't even feel weird.

I guess a lot changes when you've been in a few life-or-death situations together, because Cato – brutal, bloody Cato – is holding onto me like I'm a lifeline, and my shoulder feels kind of damp where his face is. I move one hand to the back of his neck and hold on even tighter because he's so _here_ right now, and I feel so alone.

"I can't do this," I say into his neck. "I just can't."

"Me neither," he answers, his voice muffled.

"But I have to. We have to. The Victor's Tour and interviews and cameras in our faces all the time. We have to do this. We need a plan," I say slowly, making the decision as I say it. "We need a plan," I repeat, pulling back to look him in the face.

His eyes are wet, but his face is hard, and he nods. "Okay. Do you have one?"

"Not yet."

"Okay," he says again. "Well, we'll come up with one."

"Yes, we will," I smile a little, because there might be a "we" now. It's not just me anymore.

He smiles, too. "So were you just going to stay here all night, or…" he trails off.

"Yeah, I didn't really think much about anything besides crying and not moving, but yeah, I guess that was the idea," I say, trying not to laugh at myself.

He kind of chuckles. "Cool."

We just look at each other for a moment. "So are you gonna go back to your floor anytime soon?" I ask.

He screws his face up doubtfully. "Eh. Nah."

It takes me some time to process the fact that he's actually going to stay here all night with me. "Oh," I say, and for some ridiculous reason, I'm blushing.

He doesn't seem to notice. "Are you going to sleep ever?"

"Maybe." I take the pillow lying where I sat before and put it between him and me, then turn and lean back against his chest, covering myself with the blanket. "So you're going to stay here?" I ask, just to check.

"Yep," he says, voice vibrating deep in his chest. Tentatively, he puts his arms loosely around my waist. After a moment where I consider how to react, I put my hands over his, lacing my fingers into his.

We stay like that all night. At some point, his arms relax a little, which I'm pretty sure means he's asleep. I fall asleep myself a little bit after that, when the sun is just coming up behind the buildings of the Capitol.


	6. Chapter 6: Cato

**A/N: The much-anticipated chapter from Cato's perspective! It's not going to be as dialogue-y, more focused on his thoughts. If the Cato P.O.V. ends up being popular, I may do the second one with more talking. The next Cato chapter is being tentatively put at around the time where this gets 100 reviews. That's about when it'll fit in. Sound fair? **

**Also, side note - you know you've got great reviewers when they make you see your writing in a new light and consider different ways of looking at moments and people. MsCassity, I am looking at you in particular. Thank you all so much for reading and putting so much thought into it! You're a wonderful group of people, and I really appreciate each one of you.**

Morality was never a big concern for me. It rated somewhere between music and makeup on my list of important things to know. But now, sitting here with the girl from twelve, it suddenly matters a lot. She views things in those terms; good and evil, right and wrong. Foreign concepts that I'm trying to unravel for the first time in my life.

I don't know how I got here: in a windowsill in the middle of the night, holding Katniss against me. Logically, maybe I do, but I still don't understand. I have to kill her, kill or be killed. There's no room for moments like these, quiet moments where she cries and I comfort her. At least, that's what they told us. But I'm starting to think they lied.

All of my moral confusion can't be traced straight back to any one point. It was more of a gradual descent into these surreal circumstances. I thought I understood why she kept me alive at first; to torture me, use me to get her own unique, television-worthy victory. I almost respected her for that; it's what I would've done.

But then she kept not killing me. She fed me, gave me water. She didn't even torture me. I kept preparing myself for when she'd inevitably snap, break the nice-girl act for the cameras, and start cutting me up, starving me, beating me. I was prepared to wait that all out, try to conserve my strength, and escape when she made her first mistake. But that never happened. I got infected first.

There was so many painful injuries on my body that I hadn't been able to separate the individual strands of agony. By the time I realized the claw marks from the dogs were hot and puffy with infection, it was too late. Wasn't like I'd be able to do anything about it. I was going to die there, alone on the ground, and I hated it. She'd win and all of this would've been pointless.

She came back just in time, and then she saved me. That was the first thing she did that caught me so off-guard. When infection had done most of the work, when she was so close to being the victor, she saved me, putting herself in danger. I couldn't believe it, that she'd do something so utterly stupid just because it was the "right" thing to do.

Before, I might've been able to justify it, calling her simple-minded or bad at playing the game. But obviously, those things didn't apply. And she was so kind to me when she healed me. I passed out partway through, but what I can remember of her hands on me was gentle, scared. And I woke up with my head in her lap.

That's the first time she suggested that ridiculous plan of hers, where both of us would survive. And I didn't even have the energy to say the things I should've; that she was stupid, naïve, childish, that she didn't understand how it works, that she could take her deal and shove it up her ass, because I wouldn't take it in a million years. That last one was what I especially should've said, yet especially didn't.

She surprised me again, when she gave me one of the squirrels. It seemed she didn't understand basic hostage-taking protocol, but I wasn't going to argue. More strength to kill her with later, I guess. But the longer I told myself that's what was going to happen, the less I actually believed it.

I tried to figure out a plan while she was gone. I needed to be confident to win this. But then the floor gave out beneath me and the cave started flooding. Immediately, I knew the Gamemakers did this. They wanted her to win. Everybody did. But I wasn't going to die so easily; before the water got to me, I held myself up, filled my lungs to the max and held my breath. And then the water swirled into the hole, covering me.

I tried to keep myself from panicking. That's one thing they'd taught me to do that actually was coming in handy. I held my breath, kept my eyes shut, and tried to reach for the walls of the whole, something steady that I could use to haul myself up to grab another breath, but there was nothing except swirling, freezing water. They'd trained us for this, how to survive in the water, but it hadn't been anything like this torrential whirlpool. I was panicking then, running out of air, because I was going to die. She could never get back in time.

And then, miraculously, she was there. I brushed her leg and immediately knew it was her. I held on for dear life, hoping against hope that she was here to save me again. I was sure she wasn't. I would've let me drown. But she didn't. She pulled me up.

Air had never seemed so precious, even in the training situations where they reenacted these very situations. And I'd never been so grateful to a person as I was right then, but that felt strange, and incorrect, because you can't feel grateful to someone you're going to kill. So I didn't know how to feel about that. I didn't know how to handle someone who kept showing me mercy, because they think it's the right thing to do. Still don't.

She dragged me out into the rain and talked about that plan again after that. Despite myself, some of what she said made sense. If I separated myself from everything I was taught, I could almost buy in. But then I remembered that she was my competition, the only thing holding me back from returning home from to a victor's welcome and vice-versa, and then it didn't make sense anymore.

The faked escape was smart on her part, if she was really committed to that plan of us both getting out alive somehow. It wasn't so faked on my side, though. If I could actually escape while her guard was down, I would totally do it. But she didn't let that happen, of course. She was a tough girl, for her size, and strong. And the worst part was the look in her eyes; I recognized it, a kind of desperation that all of the victors have in the interviews. She'd already won. The only question was if I was going to win, too.

I hated her for that. I was supposed to be the one who won before the games were over, bring pride to my district. My only opportunity to still succeed in that was to kill her, quickly, disregarding all those crazy thoughts of maybe doing what she suggested.

But something was changing. I didn't want to kill her; at least, not right then. So although when I got down into the cave first, I could probably grab an arrow and maybe shove it into something vulnerable and win this thing, I didn't. I let her chain me back up. I told myself it'd be a waste of time, that she'd be prepared and it'd just make her kill me, but really, deep inside of me, I was starting to think that it was wrong .

I instantly regretted that when I read the notes from Enobaria and my sister, Sophia. It's not what they said as much as what they reminded me of. My district was going to be disgusted with me. My parents were going to be disgusted with me, and then they'd have to work double shifts in the quarries to survive.

Except that they wouldn't. They'd rather put up another one of us kids for the training than figure out a way to live without everything they were accustomed to. And I couldn't let that happen. I had to win this.

So I didn't tell her about the key I got, slipping it into my mouth when she wasn't looking and kept it under my tongue. Katniss got a stopwatch of some kind, and it went off, beeping really obnoxiously. She freaked out completely, unlocking me and heading outside, barely keeping tabs on me. I should've taken advantage of that, but I didn't, because her fear was catching. She asked if I had a key, straight up, and I tried not to answer, but then she told me to unlock myself. Things must've been terrible for her to tell me to do that.

I spit out the key and started working, just in time, too, because then I saw it, another muttation, heading straight at us. I was terrified for second, and then I wasn't; I couldn't be. I had to be level-headed to escape this. I got out in time to run, but then I noticed Katniss was just standing there, frozen. One glance at the face and I knew what was stopping her; the dog looked like her lover-boy.

Of course it didn't kill her, though. She was the favorite. It was programmed to kill me, since she wouldn't. She couldn't even kill the dog, though, and that's when I knew I was doomed. But I kept running, just out of instinct.

She followed me, only catching up when I stopped, completely out of breath. I was exhausted and still hurt and worn out like I'd never been before. Nothing could prepare me for those games or for Katniss. She told me to run. She tried to keep me from getting killed, again, even going so far as to stand in front of me. And I didn't even try to stop her.

The dog ran up to her and clawed at her face, pushing her aside to get to me, the real target, but Katniss got right back up again, blood pouring down her face, and screamed something unintelligible. Then she took one of her arrows and stuck it into the dog's eyes, one at a time. She had officially forgotten about me by then, staring at that thing that looked like Lover-Boy and crying harder than I've ever seen anyone cry.

There was no sugarcoating what I did next, and I still don't know why I did it. But I grabbed her arm and turned her around, convinced her to let me hold her against my chest. She wasn't even trying to guard herself, so it was easy to grab her knife. For a split second, I pictured myself using on her, winning.

But for some reason, I didn't want to. Instead, I threw it at the dog, straight into his head with a flick of my wrist, just like Clove had taught me. Instantly, it died, and almost as a reaction, she fainted.

I couldn't kill her while she was like that; helpless, limp, delicate. It would be dishonorable. Wrong. They wouldn't like it at home at all. At least, that's what I told myself. I was really good at telling myself things back then.

It was a good thing that time, though, because I let myself carry her back to the cave, fix up her eye with stuff from her sponsors' packages. She'd kept my clothes with her things, so I put my shirt and jackets back on. No telling what was going to happen when she woke up. The only thing I knew was that I'd give her a chance to wake up, get her shit together.

When she did wake up, though, her shit couldn't have been less together. She was completely out of it. Her only thought was to get in the river. I humored her, reluctantly, telling myself this was like a cease-fire, that we'd get back to killing each other once she could think properly.

And once we were in the river, all she could talk about was her plan. She didn't seem to care that I had all the power, that I could kill her at any time. She was just fixated on getting us both out of this alive.

That was different than everyone else I'd ever known; _she_ was different. So I let her call me Peeta, I carried her out of that damn river, and I agreed to keep an eye on that stopwatch of hers that was apparently so important.

I woke her up again when there was fifteen minutes left. She started acting like we weren't enemies, like we were maybe even friends, not even attempting to protect herself from a potential attack. That was preposterous. Even she had to know I was still dangerous. I could still kill her. Just because I hadn't didn't mean I wouldn't.

I guess she knew me better than I did, though, because I didn't try anything. I listened to her, talked to her calmly in front of the entire nation. And when she gave me the chance to kill her, I didn't. I accepted the suicide pact. I was ready to eat the berries.

It's not as heroic as it sounds at first. Like her, I pretty much knew the Gamemakers wouldn't allow the games to end without a victor, and they didn't. We won together, and it was completely because of her, this unique girl from District 12.

And now that we're out, she's been acting even more different. She isn't confident anymore. She isn't determined. She cries and is quiet, acts like she needs me to hold her together. And I hold her together, even though I can't explain why, even to myself. It just feels right.

They didn't prepare me for any of this. Nothing was said about mercy or trust, except telling us to take advantage of these qualities in others. I was supposed to be emotionless, and I did my best to be. Nobody warned me there would be someone I'd meet, who'd somehow override everything I learned and make me like her, make me a person again. But here she is, and here I am, being a person.

For all the impressive and deadly things she's done, Katniss doesn't look capable of them at first glance. There's a reason we thought she was simple-minded; she just gives off this impression of needing help that it's almost impossible to deny. I guess I couldn't understand before that it didn't have to mean she was helpless on her own. On the contrary, she's maybe the most dangerous girl I've ever known, besides Clove.

She is helpless again right now, lying against my chest, asleep. I could kill her without a problem, put my hands around her skinny neck and squeeze, or take her head and jerk it to the side. She wouldn't even know how it happened.

There was a time when I killed for this chance, to have the girl on fire completely vulnerable to me. I was going to murder her in the most gruesome way I could think of. Now, I don't even care. Actually, it's worse than that; it's not just that I don't care, it's that I don't want to. I don't want to kill her, and not out of guilt.

It's because I genuinely like her. Not in any romantic sense – I'm not that insane – but just as a person. I like the way she feels in my arms, how my hands can fit around her waist. She's so broken now, so human, and I don't know what to do. She scares me with how much I like her, so I try not to say anything. I don't want to ruin this perception of me she's developed, where I'm someone she wants around, so I try not to do much of anything.

I can do this, though. I can be strong for her when she can't handle something. Strength has always been my forte, and since she's decided on me to be her rock or whatever, I'm not going to argue. Whatever I can do to help pay her back, I'll do it, because she's done so much; saved my life, stuck with me during the interview, let me stay here, trusted me. I can feel myself changing because of her, and for the moment, if I don't think about what everyone else will think, I can almost like this me.

But then I remember everything they told me during the first eighteen years of my life, all the messages, slogans, mantras they've pounded into our heads practically since birth. Everyone is nothing. No one is special. They had us believing that everyone was disposable. All that mattered was bringing pride and honor to your district, your family, because those things could never die. That end, a glorious death, was the only thing they prepared us for, not the journey there. They didn't tell us the journey would hurt like hell. They didn't bother to fill us in that there'd be people that could matter to you like this.

Clove was the first one, but it never felt as strong. She and I were competitors, rivals, classmates. We both knew better than to ever get attached to someone, so we didn't. But years of training together as the best of our respective genders couldn't leave no impact on us. We knew each other's weaknesses, blind spots, unconscious gestures. I knew her better than I knew myself. I could tell where she'd aim just by how her eyes looked.

None of us were supposed to get that friendly. We knew it wasn't coincident that I was chosen to volunteer the same year as her – the trainers had morbid sense of humor. We were some kind of example for the other tribute trainees, a warning not to get attached, or look at what could happen. They expected us to have kill each other, or at the very least watch each other die.

For a few days, it seemed like we'd get around that, with the rule change. Yeah, it was made for the lovers, but we thought we could hijack it. That didn't work out so well. I got to watch her die after all, completely unable to do anything. At least she died with me, the one who knew her best out of anyone in the world. She didn't die alone.

I guess that's all I wanted. I didn't want to die alone, pointlessly, all because of some pride programmed into me that said I couldn't play intelligently. Winning at any cost didn't sound so good anymore, and there was actually another option.

I don't know if that made a better person. I don't know if I'm more "good" than I was before. All I know is that it got me to this place, with someone to hold onto while I sleep, someone who trusts me despite everything I did. Nothing that got me here can be wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: It has come to my attention that some of you guys have Tumblrs. I have two: Significationary, which is my main one, and Signifanfictionary for my fanfics. If you have any questions, concerns, curiosity, or anything, feel free to contact me through Tumblr! I'm on there several times a day. **

**The Cato chapter has gone over quite well, so I'm definitely going to do another one, but the 100 review mark is no longer going to fit. You magnificent bastards are handing out input left and right, which I LOVE. So I'll set it like this: three more chapters, then you'll get your Cato fix again. **

**A small observation – I've been posting these chapters in longer chunks, to avoid terrible cliffhangers and mid-conversation cutoffs. So while I may have had a dozen chapters roughed out at my previous shorter length, it's only like six now. The tl;dr version: my writing may soon slow down. But I still love you, and I'm going to keep working super-hard. **

Haymitch finds us like that in the morning – afternoon, really, because he's hungover as all hell. That doesn't stop him from being loudly and abrasive as usual, though. I wake up when Haymitch shoves Cato's shoulder, jostling me. We both jerk awake at the same time, hands tightening on each other. For a second, I panic, and then it registers that I'm looking at Haymitch's tired, angry face.

"Oh. Hi, Haymitch," I say, doing my very best to sound calm.

"The hell are you doing?" he demands, taking a swig of beer.

"Me? What about you, you're the one drinking before lunch," I point out. I'm not sure if he's scared or just quiet, but Cato doesn't say or do anything.

Haymitch points at me sternly. "This is to help me wake up. Don't turn this around. Now come on, what's going on here? Is this what kids do these days?"

"We didn't do anything," Cato speaks up, then adds respectfully, "sir." He almost sounds scared of Haymitch, which I don't understand.

"Not talking to you," he swings his finger over to Cato, then points back to me. "Explain yourself."

"I don't have to do a damn thing," I say stubbornly.

He looks at me for a second, takes another drink. "Alright," he nods. "Okay. Whatever you need." He sounds remarkably serious and sober, and the way he looks at me couldn't be more sympathetic and understanding. For the first time since coming out of the arena, I realize that he's been through this, this exactly, except he didn't have someone that came out of there with him.

By the time I work through that in my head, he's walking away. "Wait, Haymitch," I say quickly. He turns back to look at me. "I need your advice," I tell him.

His lips twitch up into a smile, which he quickly corrects into a frown. "Sure you do." He comes back and leans against the other side of the window frame, then looks at me kindly. "What is it?"

"We need a plan."

"We? You and me, or you two," he says suspiciously, motioning at Cato and me.

"Us two. We don't have a believable story about why we didn't kill each other. We faked it through the interview yesterday, but we need a better answer."

Haymitch sucks in his cheeks and looks at the two of us for a second. "Okay. Well, like I said, you've gotta give them something to root for. You actually laid a good foundation for that," he admitted, nodding at Cato. "With the 'respect each other' thing, and that 'right now'. That was good, nice work."

"You're welcome?" Cato says, unsure.

"Eh," Haymitch grunts, taking another drink of beer.

"So we're going to be like, best friends or something? Is that's what's going on?" I ask.

Haymitch snorts. "No. Not even a little bit. They don't root for friends."

"You've got to be kidding," Cato says flatly.

"Nope. You two are falling in love," Haymitch states.

I am horrified. "Absolutely not," I say, just as Cato says,

"No."

Haymitch shrugs. "Fine. Suit yourselves. But that's my advice." He looks at both of us again. "And you two get along, at least. Think about it. I'm giving you a way to survive here, and you're not even going to think about it? C'mon, Katniss, use that brain."

"But how am I supposed to act like I'm falling in love again when the first person I did that to died? _Because_ of me," I add pointedly.

He looks at me for a second, tapping his beer bottle against his thigh. "Alright. Fair point," he finally decides. "Say something about connecting over your mutual heartache, play up the sympathy points. Bring up that you knew him, loved him. Along those lines. Can you do that?" he asks me. "Because if you don't, Snow's going to have a major fit."

I bite my lip. "Fit?"

"Yeah, he's already convinced you want to start a rebellion. Right now, you can play your move off as two love-sick teenagers, but if you wait to get that ball rolling much longer, you're going to miss your chance." He sounds very insistent, but not in a mean way, in a concerned about my welfare way.

He did his job – more than did it, because he got two of us out, for the first time in the history of the games – so I guess I have no reason not to trust him. I just don't want to.

"Sweetheart, listen to me," Haymitch says gently. "I get it. But you're not going to kill this one. The games are over. And you need to figure out how you can go back to your life. That's what you want, right?"

"Yeah." He knows me so well.

"Right. And you, you've got a whole different deal going on to figure out," he says to Cato, raising his eyebrows. "Don't envy Enobaria one bit. I wouldn't wish your guys' situation on anybody. Even her. Well…" he adds uncertainly then shrugs.

"Well, it's just my situation," Cato says. "She told me I was on my own."

"Seriously?" Haymitch frowns. "She's not even going to try?"

"Are you surprised?" Cato says, somewhat bitterly. "I'm pretty much a lost cause at home."

"You are," Haymitch nods thoughtfully. "Well, if we're going to pull this off, then you're going to be a part of this, so I guess I can give you a few pieces of my valuable input."

"Yeah?" Cato sounds surprised.

"On the couch, you two," Haymitch directs in a no-nonsense manner. Both of us jump up to obey, and leave Peeta's blankets on the windowsill. Maybe it's symbolic. I need to change, move on. Maybe I'm over-thinking things, as usual.

"Alright," Haymitch sighs, plopping down on the chair across from us. "Here's what you're going to do."

We lay out a basic plan. I'm not exactly comfortable with it, but Haymitch is right – at least I'm doing it with someone who stayed up late to hold me while I cried, someone who saved my life and vice versa. And at least it's just friendship right now. I can't exactly tell what Cato thinks about the plan; his face is impressively blank as usual. He seems willing enough, though, and by the end of that talk, Haymitch doesn't glare at him whenever he has to speak to him anymore.

"Okay," Haymitch says at the end, standing. "So you two need to be seen together all the time. Don't start anything romantic, but hand-holding, blushing, the teenage things, you know," he finishes vaguely.

"No, I don't," Cato and I say at exactly the same time.

"Yes, you do," Haymitch makes a face at us and points at each of us in turn. "Just like that. Do things like that, what you just did." He walks away, chuckling. "That was good," he says over his shoulder. "Very good."

I look awkwardly at Cato. "I don't know if we can plan that," I say to him.

"Definitely not. We'll just have to wing it," he agrees.

"He tried to kill you and everyone you love," Haymitch observes from the dining room.

I feel an uncomfortable twist of guilt in my stomach, which I cover with anger. "Why would you say that?" I demand.

"Somebody had to. The two of you are going to act like you're falling in love, you can't just ignore this," he says reasonably. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he asks Cato.

"She tried to kill me, too. It was part of the game."

"But outside of those games, you have other parts of your personality?" Haymitch pushes. "She's a Seam girl, a black-market hunter, she's taken care of her family, she practically raised her sister. Her father worked in the mines. Her mother heals. She sings."

"How'd you know that?" I ask suspiciously.

"Did my research," he shrugs, then turns to Cato. "So. How about you?"

Cato doesn't answer, looking down at the floor. For a second, I feel cold with fright.

"Come on," I say softly. "Say something."

"What do you want me to say?" he asks me angrily. "I trained my whole life for this. There was no other part of me, alright? What do you want?" Want me to be sorry? Okay, I'm sorry. I can't change my entire life."

There's a very long silence after he says that. Then Haymitch speaks up again. "This is gonna work out great," he says and claps his hands, suddenly jovial.

"Why in the world would you say that now?" I ask him in bewilderment.

He chugs a bunch of liquor from a crystal bottle on a sideboard. "He's being honest," he finally says. "And that's more important than you two liking each other."

It makes sense, of course. Haymitch is good at playing this game; he's seen it all. But I don't like it. "Fine," I say. "Let's do this, then."

"Alright. You, go downstairs and make sure people see you wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Putz around for while, do whatever you guys do down there, then come back up here in a few hours. Bring your victory parade clothes, so you two arrive there together. C'mon, basic stuff. You should figure this out for yourselves, kids." He looks at the two of us, and I see his face twitch in pain for a second. "I'll be in my room," he mutters, and walks away, carrying two big bottles.

"How the hell did he get you through alive?" Cato mumbles.

"He played smart."

"Didn't know he could do that."

"Stop," I glare at him. "He's smart. Or haven't you heard how he won?"

"No, I heard. The forcefield thing, he got lucky. He's an idiot."

"He is smart," I say emphatically.

Cato doesn't say anything for a second. "Okay," he nods, pressing his lips together tightly. "Sorry. He's doing a pretty good job, I guess. Better than my mentor."

"Yeah. Well. I'll see you in a few hours," I mumble, looking away from him. I didn't think things could get more awkward than crying hysterically in someone's arms that you barely know, but they officially have.

"Okay." He stands up and heads toward the door, then stops and turns back around. "I am sorry," he tells me. "But I didn't have any other choice."

"Neither did I. It's fine," I say. Then, impulsively, I get up and walk over to him. I don't know how to approach this, so I just put my arms out. He smiles slightly, and hugs me, leaning down so I don't end up hugging his waist. I feel his arms tighten briefly, then he pulls back.

"See you in a few hours," he says.

"Okay." I fold my arms against myself and watch him leave, shutting the door behind him.

The moment he's gone, I go to Haymitch's room. I knock on his closed door loudly and open it without waiting. "Get out of here," he mutters, glancing up at me from his seat on his rumpled, unmade bed.

I ignore him. "Did you know the people from twelve your year?"

"One of them."

Right, his year was the one where four tributes came from each district. "Were you there when they died?"

He sighs deeply. "Yeah, I was there when she died, what do you want?" he asks, faking annoyance very convincingly.

"No one's going to understand me when I go back," I say quietly.

He looks at the wall for a long time, then takes a long pull from one of the bottles in his hands. "No one but me," he says heavily. "I get it. Alright, sweetheart. C'mere." He swings one arm out towards me.

I walk to his bed and get in it, sitting against his headboard next to him. I reach for one of the bottles, but he holds it out of my reach. "No," he says firmly. "Not for you. You're too young for this. You still have your family and friends."

"Don't you?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Dead." He takes an especially long drink from the other bottle. "So you can't be stupid and take chances like that. You'll hurt everybody you love. Take it from me."

"You were a great mentor." It's all I can think of to say to him that isn't either grossly inappropriate or way too sad.

"Thanks, darling. You were the best mentee. No matter what that idiot in office says." He pauses for a very long time. "They wanted to change you."

"Change me how?"

"Surgical enhancements, like Enobaria."

"Why would they sharpen my teeth?" I frown.

"No, no they wanted to mess with your nose and eyes, lighten your bones out. You climbed a tree; they thought you should be a bird." He shrugs. "I had to fight with them, since you didn't care. Except for those scars." His words are starting to slur together.

"Thanks," I say after a second. "For fighting for me."

"You're all… welcome. You're welcome." We sit there and look at the wall of his bedroom, and I actually don't mind how the bed smells like booze. Reminds me of my father, how he smelled on nights after weddings or holidays. It's almost comforting. "You could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him, if he were still alive," he announces.

"I know. He was the superior one out of the two of us. Three of us."

"I'll drink to that." He raises his bottle.

"You'll drink to anything."

Haymitch laughs harshly. "That too." He takes a drink. "Y'know, you're right. Nobody's gonna understand the decisions you made. But you've gotta believe that you did the right thing, alright? Don't let them take that away from you." He turns to me and takes my chin in his hand. "Look at me. Listen. You did the right thing in there. No matter what you did, it was the right thing. Living's no good if you can't live with yourself."

I'll always defend him against the doubters, the Catos of the world, and it's for moments like this. He knows me, and he doesn't judge me for any of the terrible things I've done since I got reaped, because he's done worse. "Thanks," I murmur. "And what about you, can you live with yourself?"

"What do you think?" he asks, waving the bottle in his hand in front of my face.

"Right."

"You should go," he says. "Shouldn't see me like this."

"As long as you promise you'll be coherent for the parade. I need you."

"Of course, sweetheart." He leans over and kisses the side of my head. "Now get out. Go watch what they're saying about you or something."

I take his advice. It's not hard to find coverage or recaps of the games I just co-won, so I have my choice. I go to Caesar's channel, because he does the least editorializing, and the last thing I need is subtle, pointed commentary on my every move.

After a couple hours of research, I've decided; Haymitch was totally right. Even Caesar is speculating wildly on Cato's and my relationship, wondering if there might be more than just respect. He goes through every instance of Cato and me appearing within the same camera shot and analyzes us, looking for any sign of something more. He spins a few possible stories, talks to a few viewers about their opinions, and generally makes me feel more self-conscious than I've ever been in my life.

A few hours into my watching, Cinna comes in with my team and a new dress. This one's black, too, but textured like coal. It's a one-shouldered dress, and the single strap has a knot of fabric that looks like a chunk of coal. While my team bustles around, getting me ready, Cinna informs me that the knot will light on fire like our suits before the games. Also, he tells me he did a little work on Cato's clothes, so they'll look good with mine, and that Cato will be coming up here to get dressed, as per Haymitch's suggestions.

He's barely finished filling me in when Cato knocks on the door and comes in. He says an uncomfortable hello to Cinna and nods at me. "Hey."

"Hi," I say. Venia scolds me for ruining the eyeliner she's applying, so I don't talk after that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cinna unveil his alterations to Cato's suit. It's copper-colored and metallic, but that's all I can see before Flavius scolds me for turning my head.

Cato goes into another room to change and get ready – his team of three files through the living room to work on him and leaves very quickly. I guess that's the difference between a career guy and a Seam girl. Since I got started first, though, we get done at about the same time.

When I'm done, I get out of my chair, turn, and catch him looking at me. He's dressed in a blazer and pants that look like they're woven out of copper thread. "How do I look?" I say to lighten some of the tension. Behind me, I notice that Cinna, Flavius, Octavia, and Venia have all stopped talking and are watching us talk.

"You're going to be on fire again," he observes, deadpan.

"Yep. And you're going to be… copper," I answer after a second. "And we're going to be great friends," I finish with faked false excitement.

For a second, Cato just stares at me, and I'm worried he doesn't understand that I'm joking, or trying to, at least. Then he smiles and ducks his head. "I mean, I guess. If we have to," he says, sounding very serious.

I break into a smile then, partially out of nervous energy, and luckily, he smiles back. "So are we ready to be seen in public together?" I ask Cinna.

"Absolutely," he nods. "Make sure he's standing on your left, the side with the fire."

I don't question his directions anymore. "Okay."

He walks up to me, smooths a piece of my hair down, and says, "You're gonna do great. You can smile, but don't wave. Be more stoic."

I nod – I can do stoic.

"Same goes for you," Cinna says to Cato, who also nods. "I'll be watching. Don't worry, you're gonna do wonderfully. Just remember to breathe." With that, he walks out, taking both our stylist teams with him.

"He's the best one out of all the designers," Cato observes. "Clove wanted to get him, but he went to the Capitol's favorite."

"I was a favorite?" I say doubtfully.

"Sweetheart, you're so out of touch," Haymitch snorts with laughter, walking into the room. He isn't holding any bottles, and his eyes seem relatively sharp; he's kept his promise to me, which I find sweet. "You were the favorite the moment you volunteered for that little angelic sister of yours. Where'd she come from, anyways, with that blonde hair and blue eyes? She doesn't look Seam."

"She takes after my mother."

"Okay, last minute advice," Haymitch says briskly, not acknowledging my answer. "Hold hands only half the time. Whisper a little to each other. Don't kiss or anything, though, save that for later. Got it?"

Right, later. The thought of kissing someone other than Peeta makes me feel sick. Uncomfortably, Cato and I look at each other. Then he holds his hand out to me. "Our chariot's probably waiting for us."

"Great." I take his hand then look back at Haymitch. "Where will you be?"

"At the end, waiting for you. Don't worry about a thing. See you in a bit," he waves, smiling tightly, but I see the sadness in his eyes.

"See you," is all I say, though, and Cato and I walk out.

We ride the elevator down in silence. Effie is waiting with camera crews and they escort us to the chariot. I make sure he's on my left and close my eyes briefly to collect myself. "Do I look okay?" I whisper to him. I want to hold his hand, but I wait. Haymitch said only half the time.

"You look great," he assures me, glancing down at me. The flickering flames from my shoulder are reflecting off his suit jacket, lighting his face from below in a creepy way. It does look really cool, though, just like Cinna intended.

"So do you," I tell him, trying to ignore the people around us that aren't even trying to hide their staring. It's like nobody's ever seen two co-victors talking before. In fact, that's exactly it. "You ready for this?"

"Yep." He sets his jaw and looks ahead. "Are you ready to act like friends?"

"Yeah." I was kind of hoping we wouldn't have to act, but I don't say this. I don't have the time to work out anything else to say, because then the chariot starts moving, and we emerge into the bright lights of the city circle.

The crowd goes wild, cheering for us. Mostly, though, I hear them calling my name, not his, but he doesn't seem to notice. I put on a polite smile for the cameras and whisper to him, "We're friends."

"We are," he mumbles back, smiling too. "Hands now?"

We're about halfway through the circle, so I say, "Sure." He gives me his hand, and I hang on tightly, dreading the moment I'll finally have to let go. The crowd literally goes wild, screaming and throwing trinkets at us. "Just got pelted in the cheek with a ring," I say out of the corner of my mouth.

"I just got a bracelet to the crotch. Suck it up," he says back, smiling at his side of the crowd. "We get to keep these, anyways, so it's worth it."

It's kind of handy to have him around, with his encyclopedic knowledge of the games. It's funny, I never really thought about that aspect of the careers before now. Didn't have the time, I guess, but it makes sense that they'd know everything there is to know about the games. Knowledge is power or whatever.

And having him here definitely adds regality to my being there. Him standing there, tall and muscular and trained for this, makes me feel stronger. Just his presence strengthens me.

It's hard for me to accept this, though. As Haymitch is so fond of bringing up, Cato tried to kill me. He was my biggest competitor. He was brutal, vicious, blood-thirsty, and he terrified me. Yet now, here I am, holding onto his hand for dear life, sharing semi-witty banter. I feel like a fraud, and I hate myself a little for it.

"Smile," Cato reminds me, glancing over at me.

I force my lips up into a tight smile, trying my best to look serene and victorious.

"What's wrong?" he asks when we're getting out of the chariot and climbing the steps to the balcony where President Snow is waiting for us.

"Nothing," I smile. "Don't worry about it."

Peeta would've kept asking me. He could never take no for an answer. But Cato can.

Probably has something to do with the fact that I almost killed him.

We finally reach the balcony. The only emotional reaction I can manage is just happiness that I didn't trip on my skirt. President Snow comes between us and takes our hands in his, then turns to the crowd, raising all of our hands. Then, we stand back as he makes some kind of speech about the symbolic meaning of the two of us winning together. Whatever. I'm not listening.

I look out at the crowd, at their smiling and excited faces. They don't even know how sick and wrong this whole thing is. It's like they're incapable of understanding how terrible it is to kill children for sport. Maybe I wouldn't know either, if I'd grown up here, but it's hard for me to believe that. If I could, I guess I wouldn't hate them that much.

Nah, I probably still would. I'm not forgiving.

Except for Cato, for some reason.

So instead of listening, I think about that. Why, out of all people, have I chosen him to forgive him? HIM. I have the most reasons to hate him forever, out of everybody I've ever known. I mean, we were pushed together by the games, true, and saving each others' lives multiple times changes things. But in my gut, just on an instinctual level, I can't understand how we've gotten here. How he went from the most terrifying person in my life to the only thing that can make me feel safe.

I'm pretty sure most of that's the result of the insane, life-threatening situations we were put into, and the fact that I'm accused of starting a rebellion. I'll die if we don't act like friends, which leaves me very little time to figure out how I feel about everything. I have to take advantage of opportunities like this, between smiles and "heartfelt" speeches.

And then Snow is in front of me, placing a golden crown on my head. He doesn't say anything mean, but his eyes are hard in a frightening way. "Congratulations," he says.

"Thank you," I say carefully, meeting his eyes with my chin up.

Then he moves on to Cato, putting an identical crown on his head. That's who the crown belongs on. Cato. He wears it like a true victor, proud and strong. I almost feel like I shouldn't even be here. On the other hand, though, he was the one everyone thought would die. Neither of us should be here.

Peeta should be here.

Somehow, I hold it together throughout the whole ceremony. I make it down the steps without tripping, fire flickering on my shoulder. On one of the many screens around the City Circle I catch a glimpse of myself. The fire makes my crown glitter and throws shadows on my face. I look impressive. I guess I can see why everybody keeps mistaking me for a victor, but I still don't feel like it.

Cato takes my hand partway through the Circle, and I don't care. I let him, let him squeeze tighter when I don't respond, and let him raise our hands victoriously. And I do the whole smile thing, looking out on the crowd with dignity, but I just feel hollow inside.

Haymitch is waiting for us where the carriage stops. He pushes away everybody else that swarms around me and helps me down himself. "You did great, darling," he assures me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, frowning suspiciously at the flames. "Fantastic."

Cinna comes up to us and puts out the fire. "Can I take that crown for you?" he asks.

"Sure," I say listlessly. I don't even care. "You can melt it down, if you want."

"No, no you don't mean that," Haymitch mutters to me, then says to Cinna, "She doesn't mean that. She's…" He doesn't finish that sentence, just escorts me away to the elevators. Effie's trailing behind us, tiny high heels clicking on the floor, and she's jabbering away, but Haymitch and I aren't paying attention. "You have got to calm down," he tells me.

"I am calm," I say, voice shaking.

"No, sweetheart, you're not," he shakes his head as we get in the elevator. Cato and Effie get in with us, but I barely notice it. Haymitch makes me look him straight in the eyes, and he holds me at arms length. "Listen," he says. "Okay? Listen to me."

"We can talk later-" I start, glancing at the other two people.

"No, we're talking now. Them, they don't matter," he says dismissively, waving his hand towards them. Effie squeaks indignantly, but we both ignore it. "What matters right now is you, Katniss. Okay, you saved his life. You tried to save that little girl. You volunteered for your sister, and you sacrificed your own victory to try to save Peeta. Is that all true?"

I nod, unable to speak.

"Of course it is. So you've got to start taking care of yourself, now. You've gotta deal with these things before they get out of hand, before you're drinking away your problems and you can't sleep at night. Alright?"

He's talking about himself, and that would kind of break my heart, if I could feel anything at all. Instead, I settle for crying, and sort of falling into him limply, letting him hold me. "Okay," I nod into his shoulder.

"Okay. So here's what you're going to do. We'll be going back in about three days, they want to get as much of you as they can, and when you're not doing interviews, you're going to stay in your rooms. Alright? And you can go shopping for your family with your winnings, you can sit alone and cry if you want, whatever you want."

"I don't want to do anything," I mumble into him.

"Then you don't have to. It's all about you, sweetheart, all about you. Okay?" he says slowly, pulling back so he can look at me. "Let me take care of everything. I'll schedule the interviews, get you all packed up, everything. Don't even worry."

"I don't deserve to be here. He does," I say, rubbing my eyes. None of it comes off – Cinna must have had them use waterproof stuff again.

"Peeta?" he says gently.

"Yeah…"

"That's true." He doesn't even try to lie. "He was a great boy, but he's dead now. So you've gotta stop thinking about that. You can't change what happened."

"I should, though."

"No. You shouldn't. Come on." He leads me out of the elevator into our rooms. "Go get comfortable or whatever," he says, pushing me gently towards my bedroom. I kind of stumble in that general direction. Vaguely, I hear him talking to somebody, but I don't pay any attention. I make my way to my room and end up hunched over on the side of my bed, too distraught to move, tears dripping off my face onto my beautiful coal dress.

"Katniss," someone says at the door.

I don't answer. I'm too absolutely miserable to try talking right now. I'm almost too miserable to live, except then, I think of my family, Gale, everybody at home.

"Do you need anything?"

I turn to check who it is, because I can't exactly believe my ears. But sure enough, it is Cato, standing there uncomfortably in his copper clothes. Closing my eyes, I turn back away from him. I can't answer him, because I'm crying. The amount of times I've cried in front of him is unbelievable. If I had more self-awareness, I might get embarrassed.

"Can I come in?" he asks after a very long silence.

I kind of shrug, and then my shoulders shake with harder sobs.

He does come in then, sitting down next to me on the bed, about a foot away. "Can I do anything?" he asks quietly.

"N-n-no," I finally get out. It's hard to talk, or even breathe because of how hard I'm crying.

"Are you sure?"

"No," I mumble, not moving my lips.

He takes off his suit jacket then, putting it over my shoulders. "Okay," he says. "Well, let me know."

I nod, doing my best not to shake and completely failing. The inside of the jacket is unbelievably soft, though I don't know why I'm surprised. It _is_ one of Cinna's designs.

So he gets up and starts to walk out, but then he stops. "You did what you had to," he says without looking at me. "You shouldn't feel bad about that."

'It's not that easy," I shake my head, wiping my tears off on the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm not made like that. And he was… he saved my life."

"That happens a lot in there," he starts to say.

"No. No, I mean before, before any of this started. My dad died and my mom couldn't handle it and me and my sister almost died, but Peeta saved us. Gave us bread. And I killed him." Saying it out loud is worse. I thought it might make me feel better, but it doesn't at all.

"It wasn't your fault," he tells me after a second. "He fell. You just stopped him from dying really slowly and painfully."

True, but "If it wasn't for me-"

He doesn't let me finish that statement. "If it wasn't for you, somebody else would've killed him in a terrible way."

"You, maybe," I say without thinking.

That makes him pause. "Yeah," he nods. "Probably would've been me. And you wouldn't want that. Trust me. I would know."

After some more crying because I'm thinking about the terrible ways Peeta could've died, I realize Cato's joking. Morbidly, but he's joking. I do this weird combination of a laugh and a sob, then sniff loudly. "Yeah," I say, breathing very unsteadily. "That would've been bad."

A long pause. "So do you want me to leave?" he asks seriously.

"No," I admit sadly. "I don't." That sets me off crying again, and he comes back and sits next to me, but at a distance. Which is sensitive and kind of him, and that's weird.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" he asks.

"W-what?" I sniff, wiping my eyes again so I can see his expression. He's just deadpan, though, as usual, so no help there. "Why do you…"

"I mean, I just wanted to know. You should be scared, probably. I tried to kill you," he says, trying to sound very casual. This whole thing is much more important than he's trying to act like it is; even the way I am, I can tell that from his carefully controlled tone of voice.

"You did," I nod, getting control of myself enough to speak. "You did," I repeat more clearly. "But I'm starting to think that maybe those things shouldn't count. The games, they're… crazy. And I did things in there that I'd never do again. So…"

"I don't know if I can say that, though," he says after a second. "I've never done anything else. That's who I am."

"So you're going to try to kill me soon?"

"No."

"Then that isn't who you are," I say, looking into his eyes. For a second, I'm the strong one.

"Is that why you're not scared?" he asks. I can sense this is important to him.

"I don't know. I don't know." I shake my head helplessly, so we just sit there. "I'm gonna get dressed now I think."

"Okay."

"Haymitch could find you something, if you want…"

"Okay,' he says again, and leaves.

I have to take off his jacket to get the dress off, but I put it back on after I get into pajama pants and a tank top. It almost feels like I'm wearing my dad's old leather jacket – it's comforting in the same kind of way, at least, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. Besides comforted, obviously.

So I pulled out my hair from its complicated knots and put it in its usual braid, wipe off every trace of makeup, and hold a really cold, wet towel to my face for about a minute, trying to make my eyes and nose less red and gross. Then I go back out into the main room shrugging the blazer back on.

Haymitch is in the dining room, pouring himself a drink. When he sees that I have Cato's jacket on, he narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You cold?" he asks.

"No," I say stubbornly.

He shrugs. "Whatever you say." He drains a glass of scotch. "You can bring home things for your family," he says casually. "Or things to trade at the Hob."

"Yeah? Like what?" I ask.

"Go sit on the couch, sweetheart," he sighs. "You've got a helluva lot to learn."

So I sit down, and he comes over and joins me with only one bottle of hard liquor. Then, he walks me through the process of shopping with the TV. It's amazing, impressive, and kind of completely superfluous. I almost am disgusted with myself; if the people at home could see me, shopping from a couch, spending tons of money on mostly really useless things, they'd be disgusted.

I don't by the useless things, though. I skip the extravagant food that lights up or the clothes that seem to defy gravity and get the most down-to-earth things I can find; fur-lined gloves for Gale, pretty pastel dresses for Prim and my mother, bags and sacks made out of some mysterious super-strong material. To fill those, Haymitch also helps me pick out pounds and pounds of food – fruits and vegetables, milk that doesn't go bed, and bags of super-nutritious granola.

"You're a practical kind of gal, aren't ya," Haymitch observes after the first few minutes.

"Guess so. You know how it is. You grew up Seam," I say as Cato comes over. He sits on the other end of the couch, but I say, "You can sit over here." So he gets up and sits on my other side, leaving space between us and only glancing at his jacket on me twice.

I'm beginning to think that maybe he's a considerate person. Maybe that's part of this personality he claims not to have.

"Yeah, I guess I did. But I'm not sure if I still am. Spent half the past 24 years in the Capitol. That's not really Seam," he says, shrugging.

I shrug, screwing up my face. "I always thought it was a lifetime deal."

"Let me fill you in on something, darling. After a few years, once they start to resent you for having more than they do, I'm pretty sure you lose the privilege of calling yourself Seam," he says, frowning. "Oh, get that, it's good." He points to a small thing on the screen that I can't really make out.

"It's not that good," Cato speaks up from my other side. "Don't get it. Go down more."

Haymitch leans forward to glare suspiciously at him. "What are you, nuts? It's great, travels well, good for that skinny sister of yours. Get it, babe, ignore him."

So I select it and see that it's the bread from District 11. Bread like Rue's sponsors gave me. Immediately, my breath catches in my chest, throat tightens up. It is good, I know it is, and that's because Rue died. Her death is still a raw wound inside of me, and this brings up everything, all at once.

Haymitch senses that I've tensed up, and he looks over at me. Understanding flashes in his eyes. "Actually there's a better one," he says gruffly, taking the controller from me and getting the image off the screen as fast as possible.

Cato's hand closes over mine where it lies on the couch and hesitantly, he squeezes once. And I don't know what to do because he knew, he knew before I did that this would hurt me, probably make me cry. I'm not sure if it's more meaningful that he noticed enough to know this or that he cared enough to try to stop me from seeing it.

"No, this is good bread," I say, gritting my teeth and forcing myself to sound calm. "Let's get a bunch of it. I'm sure Prim will love it." Rue looked so much like Prim; I remember this for maybe the thousandth time, only this time, it doesn't hurt so much.

"You sure?" Haymitch asks.

"Yeah." I take a deep breath and hold Cato's hand tightly. "Yep. I'm sure."

So we buy some of those, too. Everything we order will be put on the train home, Haymitch tells me, and Peacekeepers are going to help me carry it to my new house in the Victor's Village. "Will it be next to your house?" I ask.

"Do you want it to be?" Haymitch raises one eyebrow. I don't answer, suddenly realizing how pathetic I'd sound if I admit how much I'm gonna need him. "Okay," he says after a slight pause. "I'll see what I can do about it."

"Are you two the only ones there?" Cato asks.

"Yep," Haymitch says shortly. "Not like in yours. Every house still filled?"

"Yeah, um, some of the victors have chosen to live in the Capitol, instead," Cato says. He sounds very uncomfortable.

"Like Enobaria," Haymitch mutters, taking another drink. "We don't have that problem." Unsteadily, he works his way to his feet. "I'm gonna go take care of those damn TV crews," he says unhappily.

"Thanks," I smile winningly at him. "Cuz you know, you did promise that to me."

"I know," he sighs.

"And I might cry if you try to make me do anything." I am mostly joking.

Haymitch levels an unimpressed look at me. "Don't try to pull that. I was there while we figured out a persona for you. You don't do hysterical well."

"I'm learning new skills."

"I'll bet you are," Haymitch snorts and walks away, leaving Cato and me on the couch, holding hands.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Wow, guys! So many reviews! So much love! So much in-depth analysis of tiny moments that I wasn't even sure people would understand. YOU'RE ALL AMAZING! Quick shout-out to my sister, who read the whole thing and discussed it with me for like an hour – you're awesome too! **

**Don't be afraid to check out my Tumblr if you haven't yet, and ask me questions or whatever. (I've discovered I'm more likely to give out spoilers there, for some reason.) The second Cato chapter will be coming up soon!**

**I have a couple questions, and if you could shoot me some answers in a review, that would be amazing: **

**Are any of you violently opposed to me answering some reviews at the end of the chapters? Because I'm getting a lot of repeat questions that I think would've been answered if I made my review answers public.**

**I'm officially giving you bonus material after every 100 reviews. We're gonna hit that in about a day, so I'm trying to figure out what you want. It's going to be a different POV for a conversation or moment that already happened – any ideas? Tell me character you want to narrate it and the chapter/moment you'd like it to be from, and I'll take the most popular one and do it. Tell me what you want!**

"So your family… they're not…" he starts to say, then stops.

"Yeah, we're poor. Everybody is, where I come from. I mean, Peeta's family was okay, they live in the town and sell bakery things, but that just means they could eat most of the time. That's how it is." I shrug. I'm beyond being embarrassed about where I come from.

"Oh," is all he says.

"But that's not really a problem anymore, I guess. What about you guys, does winning just mean more expensive clothes or something?" I ask, trying out that politeness thing.

"No, actually… actually my family's kind of not doing good, too," he mumbles, looking away. "So this is a big deal for them, too."

I remember what he said in the arena, about him dying and his family starving. "But isn't two like, the closest district to the Capitol? You're supposed to be the best," I say, looking at him in disbelief.

"Yeah, well. My family put everything they had into my training, and there wasn't a lot left over," he says tonelessly, looking at the TV, but I don't think he's actually seeing it.

"So this is good, then? Because it kind of seemed like you were maybe a little mad at me for saving you. Since your mentor thinks you're a failure," I say, trying to figure out a way to say what I mean without sounding as terrible as I actually just did. "Sorry," I instantly add.

Cato grins at me suddenly. "Wow," he says.

"What?" I demand indignantly, smiling back.

"That came out awful." He cuts off my apology. "Nah, don't worry about it, I know what you mean, but…" He smiles again, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand. "No, I'm not mad at you," he says, serious again.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because just because we have to act for the cameras doesn't mean we can't… I don't know. Be not friends? I guess my point is that we just don't know each other." This is coming out wrong again. "I can't talk," I finally say.

"No, it's fine," he says. "We've just got to… work this out. Have a long conversation or something."

"How are we supposed to do that, though? In three days, we're going to be hundreds of miles apart. And somehow I don't think that any kind of long-distance… anything will work," I say, uncomfortable with the fact that I almost said relationship.

"Okay. Well, then I guess we're just going to have to do it all now. As fast as possible."

I can't tell if he's joking. "Are you serious?" I ask, letting go of his hand to roll up the sleeves of his jacket – they're about three inches too long.

"Is that okay?"

"Sure," I decide after a second, glancing nervously up at him. Our eyes meet for a brief second. "So you're just going to stay up here or something?"

"If they'll let me. And I can sleep on the couch, y'know, if you don't want me…"

In Peeta's bed. Right. "We can figure that out later," I say quickly. "Not now."

"What do you want to do now?" he asks.

I look at him and realize that he's practically staring at me wearing his jacket. He reaches out slowly and touches the fabric on my arm, smoothing it or feeling it or something. I'm not sure, but I don't mind. "How about we stay here and watch… something," I suggest.

"Not the games."

"No," I shake my head. "Absolutely not."

"Here. Let me pick," he says, so I let him take the controller and change channels. "We could watch this show about you," he suggests, pausing on a channel with my face blown up on the screen, being analyzed for personality trait markers.

"Nope," I say decidedly. "Change it."

He hesitates for another second, smirking at me a little, so I grab it back and change to the next channel with the same program on, except for about him. "We could watch this," I suggest, sticking my tongue out at him. "How would you like that?"

"No," he says, reaching for the controller again, but I hold it out of his reach.

On the screen, they show him training. His shirt is off, which I distinctly don't care about, except that I can see scars on his pale skin, scars everywhere, standing out in the bright industrial lights of the training facility. A few of them are big, too, like a foot-long winding white line of scar tissue over his shoulder, and what almost looks like a healed-over bullet hole in his stomach.

"Do you… are all those scars from training?" I ask, motioning at the screen.

"Yeah… yeah," he nods, uncomfortable. "Can you change the channel now?"

I give him the controller and he immediately hits the first button he can find. Eventually, we settle on a thing to watch that we both don't despise; some mindless TV show where fashion designers from the Capitol compete to see who can design the best outfit. Completely pointless, but it's the only thing going on right now that isn't about the games.

I pretend to watch it for about five minutes, and then I get fed up. "This is stupid. How can they think this type of thing means anything? This is so incredibly stupid," I repeat.

"Okay, well what do you want to do instead?" Cato asks after a second.

"Something. I don't know. Fight something. Win something. Just straight-up win something, without any guilt or strings attached. But that's… that's stupid, too," I mutter, crossing my arms in their super-soft sleeves.

"No. It's not." He gets up, and after a second, so do I.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Training facility. There's one nearby especially for shooting."

"Do I need to change into-"

"Nope. Doesn't matter." He leads me out the door and into the elevator. We don't even have shoes on. I can only imagine how ridiculous we look, him barefoot in Peeta's slightly too-small clothes and me, wearing his huge copper blazer.

"People are going to talk," I say. "This is going to be all over the news."

"I don't care if you don't," he says, looking down at me. I can't tell if he's smiling at me because we're friends or if it's a more lethal kind of smile. I want to believe in him, trust that he's a different person outside of the arena, but the paranoid part of me won't take anything at face value. I hate that paranoid part of me. It's the part that made me suspicious of Peeta, made me waste some of the short time we had together.

So I try to ignore that part of me. "I don't," I say, and I reach for his hand.

I like holding his hand now; I can admit that to myself. And it might be because his hand is strong and callused kind of like Peeta's, but that's not all it is. Because his hand is bigger, rougher, and instead of holding it and thinking about that hand throwing me bread, I'm holding it and remembering what it looked like holding a sword, snapping someone's neck, climbing towards me to kill me. But still, it's so nice to have it around mine.

We get off on the ground floor and he leads me towards this aforementioned training center. "They're staring," I mutter to him, trying not to move my lips.

"So?" he shrugs. "Let them."

I guess he's gotten used to having a camera in his face all the time, from his career of training for this. But I'm not prepared at all. So maybe I hold onto his hand a little tighter when several cameras swing over and start to film us walking, and maybe he surprises me by squeezing back.

"Don't worry about it," he whispers to me, then smiles tightly at one of the cameras. "Try to smile. Don't look like I'm marching you to your execution."

That makes me actually smile for real, and I hear several camera shutters clicking. "They're going to notice that I'm wearing your jacket."

"Probably. That's what we're supposed to do, right? Step it up."

"Yep." That much is true.

We make our way to the training facility, surrounded and followed by an increasing number of cameras and reporters that thankfully keep their distance. I guess Cato's intimidating size is keeping them back. Another thing to be grateful for. Another thing for me to feel weird about.

The training place is empty when we walk in and close the door behind us. The reporters aren't quick enough to get in, but I know it won't take them long to figure out a way in. So as soon as the door's closed, I say to Cato, "Listen. I don't have any problem with pretending things for President Snow. I didn't win just to get accused of some rebellion attempt. But we have to work things out first."

"Like what?" he asks, his face unreadable.

"Like I need to know how you actually feel about this. About me," I add, trying not to sound pathetic and needy.

"I think you're… we have to do this, right? Feelings don't really matter," he says hopefully.

"No, they do. I have to know if I can… trust… you," I mumble really quietly at the end.

He looks deep into my eyes like he's trying to find some kind of answer there. "Do you want to trust me?" he asks.

"Does that matter?" I say, trying to be confident.

"I think it does," he nods seriously.

Damn it. He's being really weird and serious right now, and I need to actually come up with some kind of answer. Alright. I give it my best shot. "Well then yes. I want to trust you. But not in a stupid way where I'm going to let you destroy me or something." His face twitches in a way which makes me wonder if he's maybe hurt by that statement, so I tack on to the end, "I need someone to be with me in this."

"Haymitch," he points out.

"Yeah, but he's not always the most… reliable. So?" I say nervously, clenching my fists at my sides anxiously. If this goes bad, I have no idea what will happen.

"So," is all he says, still looking at me in that way that I can't interpret.

I'm not going to beg him to give me a straight answer. Whatever. Screw him. I don't even need him. Huffily, I strip off his jacket and throw it over one of the weapons racks. Briskly, I string one of the silver bows there, flick the string experimentally to make sure it's tight enough. I take one of the quivers of arrows and sling it over my shoulder. There's a bunch of dummies lying around the room in various states of put-together-ness, and a series of targets on the walls. I take careful aim, then shoot at the first target. Perfect bulls-eye. I pull out another arrow and aim again.

Almost unconsciously, I hear something behind me, coming towards me fast. I panic. The movement's instinctual; I turn, aim, and shoot, straight through Cato's hand.

Oh no. I drop the bow – it clatters to the ground. He's just standing there, looking at the arrow in his hand. It's bleeding already, thick drops of blood that drip down his arm, and he's just staring at it, nonplussed. "Are you… are you okay?" I gasp out. I reach out to him, but stop – the absolute last thing I want to do is screw this up more than I just did.

"I'm fine," he says, flexing a few fingers and flinching. "Can you cut this out?"

"Right. Of course," I say, after a moment of shock. I grab a knife and cut the tip of the arrow off and pull out the other half out of his palm. He clenches his jaw, but doesn't say a word of complaint. "Don't move." I cut a strip off of the copper jacket – the knife slices through it easily – and wrap it around his hand, tying it tightly so it stays there. "I am so, so sorry," I mumble, blushing furiously.

"Don't worry about it," he shakes his head. "That was a really good shot. Right through the middle of my hand," he says, moving his fingers around experimentally. "And I'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, it just went through muscle." He frowns. "Didn't he say your mother's a healer? Shouldn't you know?"

"Oh, but that's never been my thing. My sister does that. I'm more of a hunter. Like my father," I say shortly. "Although I'm really regretting that right now. You're sure you're going to be okay?"

"Absolutely." A few members of the press are already filing inside from other doors, filming the second they walk in. I can hear them murmuring about the bloody strip of cloth around his hand. "You can trust me," he says in a low voice. "You can."

Now I'm the one looking deep into his eyes, trying to figure out how much he means that. "Can I? Can I really?" I ask. And I'm scared, because if he says yes, I'm going to believe him, because I need to believe in something now.

"Yeah," he nods.

"Okay. You can trust me too," I add after a second.

He snorts. "That never was the problem."

I look at him, surprised, because unless I'm really mistaken, he just admitted to trusting me, and even maybe that he did all along. "Since when?" I ask.

"I'm not sure." He glances at the camera crews. "So let's fight something."

I nod. "Let's fight together. I don't want to shoot you again."

"That would be good," he agrees, almost smiling.

"Throw those with your good hand." I point at a stack of rubber balls.

He doesn't argue. "Where?"

"At the targets. Hit the bulls-eye if you can."

"I can," he states confidently.

So I pick up the bow again, put another arrow on the string with shaking fingers. I take several deep breaths, then say, "Throw it." He hurls one rubber ball straight at a target on the wall, I shoot, and then the ball is pinned to the wall, arrow through the middle of it and straight into the center of the bulls-eye.

I resist the urge to look satisfied and glance at the growing crowd along the walls. They all caught that on tape. Then I look at Cato. He smiles at me, turned so nobody else can see his face. "Nice shot," he says.

"Thanks. Again."

So he throws again, at a different target, and we do it again, through the center of both. His throwing aim is almost as good as my shooting, so we make each shot perfectly through all ten of the targets. Then, he just starts lobbing them at random places on the wall, almost experimentally. After he throws one about fifteen feet up the wall and I still skewer it through the middle, I turn to him.

"Are you screwing with me?" I ask.

"Nope." His grin says otherwise. "What, afraid you'll miss?"

"I never miss."

"We'll see." Without warning, he throws another one quickly, so fast I don't even have time to think about it. I shoot instinctively again, and I hit it, perfectly. I turn to him again and raise my eyebrows.

"Guess we just saw, didn't we."

"Shut up," he rolls his eyes, and throws again.

I've gotta admit, I do feel a lot better after nailing about forty of those straight through the middle, one after the other. After the first twenty or so – once I've convinced him that I really don't miss, I guess – he starts to mess around. He throws some quickly, lobs a few others. He even does some weird curvy throws that jerk around. But if I can hit flying birds, I can handle a few curveballs.

"Up," he says, and throws the last one straight up in the air.

"Easy," I scoff. I don't even have to look as I shoot up. I hear the arrow hit the ball, then the ceiling, and then I smirk at him. "C'mon, give me something hard."

"Give me a break. I'm throwing with one hand," he says indignantly, holding up the hand I shot. He's bleeding through the strip of jacket tied around his hand, and I feel guilty.

"We should go get that looked at," I say, concerned. I hold it, and observe in the back of my head that his hand is huge, almost the size of both of mine, and very, very bloody. "You should've said something. Bleeding isn't good."

"I've bled a lot. It's no big deal," he shrugs.

I almost believe him, but then I see how much blood is soaked into the side of his pants, so much it's even dripping down onto the floor. "You really need to-"

"No," he says firmly, quietly, turning away from all the cameras. "If they see how bad this is, they'll think I'm weak. And then the same about you, and that's opposite of what they have to think. Snow can take out the weak. He won't touch you if you're strong."

"Okay. But you're not going to bleed to death to keep this act going."

He nods, very pale.

I mentally slap myself for not noticing this sooner, for being so self-centered that I didn't realize he was seriously hurt. "C'mon, let's go," I tell him, dropping the bow and quiver and grabbing up the copper jacket.

"Don't you want to fight more?"

"No, I won," I say with a small smile. "But thanks."

"Okay." Meekly, he follows me out the door and back towards the elevators. Camera crews scramble to stay with us, and it's not too difficult, because Cato can't walk too quickly. He gets dizzy whenever I try to go faster, which isn't good at all. Quietly, I begin to panic.

Also, I simultaneously realize that I have no idea where Haymitch is or what to do without him. Cato's practically bleeding out, and I don't know what to do to stop it. "Where can we get stuff to… fix this?" I ask him. I want to put my arm around him to support him, but I don't. What he said about the whole image thing was actually a very good point.

"Bathrooms on every floor. It'll be there," he says shortly. As soon as the elevator doors close, he lets out a big breath that I realize he's been holding the whole walk here. "God, that hurts," he mumbles, slightly unsteady on his feet.

Now that nobody's watching, I can hold him up – or try to at least. He's a foot taller than me and a good hundred plus pounds heavier. I take a little of his weight, though, and don't complain when he pushes down on me really hard as we start to walk out onto the twelfth floor. He makes it to the couch, and then he's down.

"Bathroom?" I ask, already running for it, throwing the jacket on the couch next to him.

"Under the sink," he calls back.

"What the hell is going on here?" Haymitch demands, walking out of his room. I ignore him and run into his bedroom; it's closest. "Mind informing me why you both are all over the news?" he says to me, following me into his bathroom.

"We wanted to go shoot things," I say, pulling open his sink cabinets. There's a silver suitcase-type box there, which I grab and stand quickly. But I can't run back, because Haymitch is blocking the door.

"Together? Holding hands? With whispered conversations?" he asks suspiciously.

"You wanted friendship. Now can you move? He's bleeding out. I shot him in the hand." I mumble that last part, then try to run away past him.

Haymitch puts out an arm and stops me. "What?"

"It was an accident, I just freaked out and shot him and he acted like it was no big deal until he almost fell down, so can you either help me or go?" I say urgently, bouncing on the balls of my feet anxiously.

Haymitch considers for a second that feels insanely long, then turns sideways and motions out the door. "Go."

I don't need to be told twice. I hurry back to the couch, slam the first aid kit down on the side table and pop the latches. Cato's half-sitting, half-slumped against the back of the couch, and he's holding his hand over the floor. "I got blood on the couch," he mumbles as I try to untie the fabric from his hand.

"That's okay, that's fine," I assure him quickly, pulling off the fabric and putting it on the table. "How do you feel?"

"Cold. Can I sleep?"

I see how much blood there is, the hole in his palm, and I feel a little dizzy.

Haymitch swears colorfully under his breath and pushes me out of the way. "Alright, you are useless here," he says. "I'll do it."

"What do I do?"

"Keep him awake, talk to him, I don't know. Just get out of the way."

I'm very good at staying out of the way, from long years of practice while my mother fixed up miners on our kitchen table. So I get up onto the couch, kneeling by Cato, and take his other hand in both of mine. "Hey," I say. "Hi."

"Hi," he says, head lolling on the back of the couch.

"Don't sleep."

Haymitch snorts, glancing up at me with dark amusement. "You're not good at this."

"Thanks for that," I snap at him.

Cato exhales half a laugh. "You know, for being the winner of the games, you're really not that… you're not mean enough or tough enough."

"Wow. Thanks," I say, slightly confused but really happy that he's talking.

"Nah, it's not… it's not necessarily bad. I guess I'm just realizing that." He sighs, then winces when Haymitch does something to his wound. "We don't know each other well," he says after a second.

"No. We don't," I say quietly.

"But we're going to, by the end of all of this, probably. Right?"

"I don't… I don't know. Maybe. Do you want that to happen?" I don't know how to answer. I don't even have my usual option of not saying anything, because my only job is to talk.

"I don't know," he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. "But you did just shoot me in the hand. And shit happened… you've cried," he says, looking at me. "You've cried a lot."

"Yeah, that's really out-of-character for me," I say, embarrassed.

"See, but I don't know that. Well, I know that, but I don't _know_ it. Shit," he hisses. I glance at his hurt hand to see what's happening to it, but Haymitch is blocking it with his body.

"Almost done," he mutters over his shoulder at me. "Just a little longer." I hear the swish of liquid and then Cato stiffens and gasps. "No infection," Haymitch says, taking a drink from the same bottle and setting it down.

"Remind me again why we aren't going to somebody that's actually a professional about this?" I say, teeth clenched. Maybe it's weakness, but I can't watch people in pain.

It takes a second before Cato can answer, so Haymitch gets to it first. "There is such thing as bad press, and this would be it," he says grimly. "Damn it. How'd you pull this one off?" he asks both of us.

"Stupidity," I decide.

Cato squeezes his eyes shut. "I am _never_ sneaking up on you again."

"Good plan," I try to smile, but I can just tell it looks weird.

Haymitch fusses a little more, then pulls back. Cato's hand is re-bandaged with clean, white gauze. All the blood is cleaned off, and it looks significantly less terrible than before. "That should be good," he says, downing what's left in the bottle.

"Awesome. Thanks," Cato says, pulling his hand in to his chest and cradling it. His other hand stays in both of mine. Belatedly, I realize that I'm rubbing it comfortingly.

"Yep. Katniss. Come," Haymitch orders

"But what about him, will he-"

"He'll be fine," Haymitch assures me. "Three seconds. Come on." So I follow him back into his bathroom, where he replaces the first-aid kit.

"What is it?" I ask impatiently.

"Alright." He straightens up and looks me dead in the eyes. "You keep that boy close to you," he orders, pointing at me.

"What? Why? I thought you don't like him." I frown.

"I'm not making any promises."

"Then why are you saying these things to me?"

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and says quietly to me, "You didn't see how bad that hand is. I don't know how you missed bone, but you did. It's a miracle."

"Wait, how bad is it?" I interrupt him.

"Can't think of many more painful things, just in terms of sheer agony," he says shortly.

I cover my mouth in horror.

"No, no, don't. He's going to be fine, with a little morphling. He'll be fine," he repeats. "Seriously, Katniss, don't worry about that."

"And why should I keep him close?" I don't even ask what morphling is; it doesn't matter right now. What _is_ important is Haymitch's sudden change of heart.

"Because," he sighs, then continues. "Look, I know he's insane. He's a psychotic trained killer, and he was the only thing between you and winning. You could even argue that he has no other personality traits."

"You're not making a very good case," I say frantically, crossing my arms.

"BUT. He just made a huge sacrifice to keep your public image intact. Could've died. That's the type of devotion you need around you," he said.

"But what if it's just-"

"No buts here, sweetheart. Just agree with me."

"I can't trust him," I shake my head.

"You already do," Haymitch says seriously, and he's frighteningly right.

I have trusted him, many times, and in so many ways. I slept while he held me. I've cried countless times around him. I've relied on him to keep me together in public. And that's just since we won.

"Is that good?" I ask Haymitch, because now that I've realized this fact, I don't know what to think about it.

"Dunno. We'll find out. But I'm just saying you need to think about this."

"He's part of why Peeta died. I don't even know him." I don't know when I turned into the devil's advocate in this conversation, but I can't stop myself. Now that I have the time, all I can do is argue against Cato's innocence.

"Then I suggest you work on that," Haymitch shrugs. "Get out there. He's lost a lot of blood, he's loopy. Keep him awake."

"Until what?"

"A few hours. Have him eat something. I'll get him the morphling. After he takes that, he'll be spaced out, and if he falls asleep, he might not wake up. By tonight, he should be fine."

"Okay."

"Good girl." He pats my shoulder. "Get out there."

"Do you think I can trust him?" I ask before I leave the bathroom.

Haymitch doesn't answer right away. He looks at me, then rubs his beard stubble. "I don't know. Trust your gut," is all he finally says. And then he doesn't give me another chance to ask him something again, because he pushes me out of the room, out of his bedroom, and shuts the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: We're officially over a hundred reviews! The lovely LvR93 is even making fan art for this story, which is flattering beyond belief. The Cato chapter is coming after this one, and then the bonus, which, according to popular demand so far, is looking like a Haymitch one. Which scene do you want? Any strong feelings? **

**I'm going to be answering review questions and more at the end of the chapter, so stick around. Long chapter today. Enjoy!**

I slam my fist into the door once or twice, then give up and go back into the living room. "Cato?" I say hesitantly. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah…" he sighs, dragging the word out. "What'd he say about me?"

If I'm going to trust him, then I'm starting now. And I'm going to trust him. I have to trust someone, sometime, and for some reason, I've chosen him. So I say truthfully, "He said I should keep you close." I sit on the couch but don't touch him.

"Don't screw with me," he says wearily, turning his head to look at me. "Really."

"Really. And he said we should get to know each other."

"Yeah," Cato says unhappily, tightening his lips. "We should."

"You don't want to?"

"Not because I think I'm going to have to kill you or anything," he says, echoing what I was thinking. I'm suddenly very uncomfortable. "But I'm not… I'm not someone you want to get to know," he finally mumbles.

"And that means?" I move a little closer to him.

"It means don't. There's nothing to get to know," he shakes his head, holding his hand close to his chest.

"That's not true," I say obstinately. "And you know it."

"You think that?" he frowns at me. "Really? You're trying really hard to justify saving my ass. That's what I think."

From the kitchen, out of sight, I think I hear Haymitch snort.

"No, that's not it," I say, annoyed. "And I do really think that. If you were just a killer, you wouldn't have agreed to win together. Nothing I said could've convinced you."

He has no answer for this, so he just sits there, looking at the ceiling, and I sit there, looking at him. "Really?" he says at last. "You think that?"

"Absolutely I do," I say quietly, scaring myself.

Cato doesn't talk for a long time again, and then he just puts his hand on my leg, patting it in a kind of spaced out way. "You're so…"

"Yeah. You too," I say sarcastically.

"So no sleep," he sighs. "For how long?"

"A few hours," Haymitch says, walking into the room with a vial of liquid. He hands it to Cato. "Drink this," he orders.

Cato downs it without argument. Considering that he accused me of poisoning him at one point, I'm pretty sure this means something, but I don't know what. "Oh," he coughs after swallowing. "This is the good stuff."

"Yep. Should wear off by nightfall. Can you stay awake until then?" Haymitch asks, leaning on the back of the couch between Cato and me.

"Sure," Cato sighs. "Didn't survive the games to die from getting shot in the hand." He cuts off the first syllable of my apology. "I'm not going to actually die. Don't feel bad about it for anything. I'll be fine."

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me, and I glare at him, but he ignores that. "Good to hear," he says to Cato, slapping his shoulder, then gets up and walks away.

"Wait, did he just…" Cato points over his shoulder at where Haymitch went. "So are we cool now?" he finally says.

"I'm not sure. Maybe." I shrug. "Hey. Hey, sit up." He does, even making the effort to hold his head up. "You need to stay awake. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't care," he shakes his head. We sit there in silence together for a second. "We should probably talk. Get to know each other or whatever," he says.

"Do you really want to?" I frown suspiciously.

"No. But you do. And you probably need it, right, so you don't think I'm still secretly a monster or something," he says casually.

"Is this you admitting you're not a monster?" I ask. There's a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm not sure what it is; either I'm apprehensive or I'm excited. They feel remarkably the same to me most of the time.

Cato doesn't answer for a second, face twitching into a variety of expressions. Then he says, "No. But it's not a secret. Or it shouldn't be. If we're gong to be working together, acting like friends or something." He holds his hurt hand to his chest and holds tight to that wrist with his other hand. "I mean… right?" he checks.

"Yeah, I mean… yeah. I'm not perfect either, though. I'm terrible at talking to people."

"That is true," he nods, smiling. "But that's different than killing people."

"No, I killed people, too. You've seen the tapes, haven't you? I think I killed the most besides you or Thresh."

He frowns. "Thresh?"

"District eleven." Of course he wouldn't know his name.

"Oh. Well, yeah, but you didn't… you didn't want to. You didn't choose to."

"You did?" I challenge.

He looks down, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Tell me. Did you choose to be a career?" I say, leaving no room for argument.

Maybe it's the blood loss, the drugs, or maybe it's that he actually wants to trust me, but he does answer, with quiet solemnity that can only mean he's telling the truth. "My parents gave me up for training as a kid so the other kids would be okay. You get tesserae for putting your kids in training."

"Yeah, so that wasn't your choice," I say slowly. "Right?"

"Not at first. But I didn't fight it. I liked being a tribute," he says in a low voice. He sounds so ashamed of himself that I almost want to hold him tightly and comfort him, but I don't.

"That doesn't… that sounds like they brainwashed you. Did you even know there was another choice?" I ask.

"Not good ones. It was always the most important thing you could do. The kids who didn't go into training were weak. Or that's what everybody said." He thinks, and then shrugs dismissively. "I don't know. I'm not sure about anything. I mean, they told us that everybody from the other districts was meant to die. But it seems like maybe it's the opposite."

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd ever be helping a career talk out his childhood issues. Yet here I am, doing exactly that, and out of my own free will, actually feeling bad for him, wanting to know more. "What do you mean?" I ask, biting my lip.

"Well, you. You have a life outside of this. I don't; this was all I had. It was win or die. And without you being all nice or whatever, it definitely would've been die. So thanks," he says reluctantly, looking at me in a way that doesn't seem very grateful.

"You're welcome," I say, crinkling up my nose.

He sees my expression and smiles tightly. "No, I am… I meant that. But it's made everything harder. Because now I have to think about this shit, and get shot in the hand," he adds, trying not to smile.

"Are you ever going to leave me alone about that?" I demand, trying not to smile back. "I mean, not that I don't deserve anything you say."

He actually smiles. "I'll stop if you're mad."

"I'm not mad, it's fine," I shake my head.

His smile gets bigger, slightly goofy. "The drugs are kicking in," he informs me.

Slowly, he begins sliding down off the couch onto the floor. I watch this, amused despite myself, until he's sitting on the ground completely, his legs under the table. "You okay?" I ask, getting down on the floor myself. There's not a lot of room between the couch and the table, so I end up kind of close to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Well, I'm not fine at all, but I'm okay. I'll be okay." He puts his hand on top of mine clumsily. "You didn't do anything wrong. But I did. I've done everything wrong."

"Not everything," is all the comfort I can manage. "You made the right choice in the end."

"What, saving you?"

"Yeah."

"Great. One semi-good thing to balance out everything else terrible I've done in my life," he sighs deeply. "That doesn't make me a good person."

"And why does that matter to you?" I finally ask what's really been on my mind.

He actually tries to answer, but the morphling seems to be doing something to him. "I don't know, but it does. And it matters to Clove," he adds, pointing across the room.

"Are you hallucinating?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Yeah," he nods happily. "Don't you see her? She's right over there." He points again, to somewhere else. "She should've won. She played the game perfect."

I decide to humor him. "Clove. She played the game?"

"Yeah. But in a weird way. I don't think she wanted to win. Not that she'd ever admit it," he says with a hint of a smile. "Right?" he says to the wall.

"What do you mean?" Despite myself, I'm a little curious.

"She didn't want me to know. We just talked about winning and strategies, but I knew something was weird." He's silent for a second, then says, "I actually think she was trying to help you."

"What? No, she almost killed me like, six different times," I snort. It must be the drugs making him say this.

"But she never did. I mean, she knew I was bad at climbing or whatever and she's like a squirrel, but she had me go up there. I don't know. I'm probably wrong," he shrugs in a really weird way that's completely loopy.

"No, it's fine. I'm doing the same thing with Peeta, trying to convince myself that he'd be okay with this, somehow. Maybe. He wasn't a killer, I mean he'd probably understand." He gave me whatever I wanted, whenever he could. He probably would've given me this.

"He was a nice guy?" he asks.

"The nicest. The world didn't deserve him," I say, biting on my lip as hard as possible so I don't start crying. This part of today is all about him.

Cato nods like he understands. "People like that don't ever win the games," he says conspiratorially.

"Well, that sucks. And I hate it. He shouldn't have been here. He shouldn't have gotten mixed up with me. I'm… terrible."

"You survived," he points out. "And you got me out, too. That's more than anyone's done in the history of ever. You're good. I'm terrible. I couldn't stop Clove from dying."

"Wouldn't that make us equally terrible?" I point out.

He stares at me blankly for a second. "Oh. Yeah. That's true. But no, that's not true," he immediately corrects himself. "You didn't… you didn't kill the only person who talked to you about anything other than the games. Training for the games. Winning the games," he says, sounding very exasperated about the whole situation.

"Clove?" I ask.

"Yep," he nods, popping the P. "Yep. We trained together, all the time. All. The. Time," he repeats with extra seriousness, staring into my eyes. "Like fourteen hours a day sometimes. We did a lot of training. Didn't we?" he asks the TV. "We did."

"What was she like?" I ask curiously. "When she wasn't trying to kill me. Or not trying to kill me," I amend my statement when he gives me a look. "She might not have been trying to kill me. All the time."

"She was… she was nice. She was like you," he says, innocently kind. "She was… lethal, and scary sometimes, and nice. She didn't think I was terrible. Like you don't. Except maybe she had a reason sometimes."

"A reason? What, were you actually nice?" I tease.

Cato snorts. "No. Nope, no. Never. I'm not nice," he says stubbornly. He pushes the table away with his feet, struggling for a few minutes before actually making it happen. "But don't talk about me anymore. Don't. Anything else I say you'll hate."

"No, I won't," I promise.

"How about later. When I'm not tripping on morphling. I know how this stuff works," he says, pointing sternly at me. Then his finger swings around to his other side. "Don't laugh at me," he orders the air.

"Nobody's there."

"Nobody's where?" he asks. I can't bring myself to answer that, so he speaks again. "So what about you?"

"Well, um maybe we shouldn't talk about me while you won't remember things. So I don't have to repeat myself later," I say hastily. "So…"

"No, no I'll remember," he says earnestly. "I've had this before. I know how it works. I'll remember everything, even if I do some really stupid things. Sorry if I do stupid things."

"It's fine. I've been really stupid, too." I sigh.

He looks at me pensively and says, "You don't have to look at me. When you say things."

For some reason, I smile at this. He makes me smile a lot for someone so serious. "Okay. Okay, fine," I say. "I'll say things. What do you want me to say?"

"I dunno. Things," he suggests after a second of thought.

I roll my eyes. "Nice. Okay. Things. I like green."

"The food? Cuz we could go get some for you."

"You can't walk. No," I say positively, not bothering to point out green isn't a food. "And I meant the color, anyways."

"What? What does that look like? Oh. But that's not what I meant."

"That was a fun conversation with yourself…" I say, half-smiling. "So are you ready to talk to me now?"

He smiles at me sweetly, innocently. "Sure. Whadduya wanna talk about?"

"I don't know. I'm not good at this. Don't you remember?"

"Okay, okay okay. Okay," he finishes seriously. "I'll think of something for you. Okay."

"Alright." I wait for him to choose something to say, and I've got that feeling in my stomach again, that thing somewhere between excited and apprehensive.

"What does Seam mean?" he asks abruptly.

I accidentally laugh. "What?" I want to make sure I heard him correctly.

"You keep using that word. All the time. And your mentor does, too. What does it mean?"

"It means…" I sigh, trying to think of how I can explain this to a career from District 2 who's never been deep in the real woods, miles from everybody else in the world. I'm not even sure he knows what coal is. "It means a lot of things," I say, just to say something.

"Like what?" he prompts.

I turn away from him, hoping that maybe that'll make it easier to explain. "Um, well, twelve is the coal district. It's really small. Some people live in town, but a lot more live near the mines. And people from around there are called Seam." Somehow, I don't think that's a very good explanation, but it's a good start.

"So it's where you live?" he asks, remarkably coherent.

"No… it's more like how you live, too. Starving, and kind of illegal sometimes. And we look out for each other," I add, thinking of Gale, but not for too long, because then I'll start to miss him so much it hurts, even though I know I'll see him in a few days.

"So… can somebody move there and be Seam?"

I am officially doing a terrible job of describing this. "No. You have to be from there. And look like you're from there."

"And what does that look like?"

"Me." That's the simplest way to explain it.

"So… darkish colored?" he asks.

I laugh once. "Yeah. That's it. All of those things combined."

"Oh."

"So are you glad you now know this completely useless piece of information?" I say, joking with him just a little bit.

"Yes. So we're saying 'so' a lot," he observes cheerfully.

"Yeah, we are," I agree after a second. "That is true." Hesitantly, I lean back on his side and shoulder. "Is that really the only question you have for me?"

"No. I have about a zillion other questions, but they're all stupid."

"Well, let me hear some of them. So you stay awake." And also because I may be genuinely curious about what he wants to know. When he's not completely aware, his default is to be honest with me. That's a good sign, right?

"Where'd you learn to be so lethal? Twelve's kids are usually worthless. Sorry." He moves his arm so it's resting on the couch next to me, and I settle more comfortably into his side.

"It's fine. It's true, anyways. My dad taught me to shoot so our family wouldn't starve." That's the super-short version – the only version I want to share.

"He just… taught you? I mean, you obviously have natural talent, or you'd never be so good," he says honestly. "I don't have any talents."

"Yeah, you do, you're-"

Cato cuts me off. "No, I don't. I'm strong. But anyone would be if they trained to be. It's not a talent. It's a skill. I have a lot of those. But not any talents." After a brief pause, he announces. "Wow. I'm kind of being a dork here."

"It's fine. You're evening things out between us – I've done enough stupid things for years."

He sort of giggles and doesn't deny it. "And you sing, too?"

"Yes," I say very uncomfortably. "But I will not sing for you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't sing for anyone."

"You sang for Rue."

I twist around to look at him. "And how the hell do you know that?" I demand. Suddenly, I realize anew how completely vulnerable I am right now, how stupid I'm being from a logical viewpoint, and I'm almost scared.

"I watched everything you did on the tapes. Know your enemy, right?"

"Right," I say, disappointed.

"But you're not my enemy. And also I could hear you singing to her when you did it. I was by where you were," he says, like that's not a big deal.

"You heard me singing to her," I repeat. "And you didn't kill me?"

"No. Clove said to wait. If we killed you while you did that whole thing with her, the sponsors would hate us," he says, matter-of-fact.

"Clove said that? Even though I was your biggest competition?" I frown.

"Yeah, that's what she said. I told you that something weird was going on with her. I wish she were still alive so we could talk about it. With you," he says, morose.

"You honestly think she'd be able to talk to me without trying to kill me?" I squint.

"Katniss." He sounds offended. "Of course. She's just… well maybe not at first, but after she got to know you, it'd be fine. She's just got a tough outside. Or had a tough outside."

"You knew her before the games?"

I feel him nod for a very long time before he says, "Yes, yes I did. We trained together. All of us knew each other. So we'd fight together well when we were reaped. Made things tough when people died, though," he says calmly.

Oh God. "Sorry. I know how tough it was to lose Peeta. But Clove…"

Cato stops me. "Nah, don't bother with the sentimental stuff. I should've saved her. I didn't. Same for you and the bread kid. Just try not to think about it. It'll… it'll feel better after a bunch of time has gone by. I knew a lot of the tributes in the past few years."

He's trying to give me emotional advice. This is unprecedented.

"I know," I say. "I know. My father died when I was eleven. I know how that works." I know about the numbness, which is where I am now. I know about the guilt, then the sudden re-realization of what happened, the emptiness. Been there. Felt that.

"Oh. Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't know… sorry."

"It's fine, really. He taught me to sing," I say impulsively.

"That's cool. He could sing?" He sounds genuinely interested in this.

"Yeah, he could sing. They said that when he sang, birds stopped to listen." As bittersweet as it is to think about my father, repeating that phrase is always comforting.

"That's… that's awesome. See, that's another talent. That drunk guy-"

"Haymitch."

"Right. He was right. Me, I'm not anybody if I'm not a tribute."

"Well, now you get to be somebody. Figure it out."

"Great. Sounds fun."

I guess we've kind of run out of conversation for the moment, because the two of us just sit there, not looking at each other. "Thanks for being worried about me," he finally says.

I am confused. "What?"

"Worried. About me. When I'm hurt. Thanks."

"You're… welcome? Why do you need to thank me for that?" I turn so I can look him in the face, and he looks at me from a very short distance away. His scars are thick and bumpy.

"Because it's… different. I dunno. Doesn't happen usually. The mentors just say like, suck it up and deal. Or they make you work harder. Or the other volunteers complain because me getting hurt slows them down." He shrugs. "You know. Normal stuff."

"Cato, that isn't normal," I shake my head, still looking into his eyes.

He looks very serious. "Really?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

We don't move, looking at each other solemnly. This close, I can tell that his eyes aren't the same color blue as Peeta's, not exactly. They're lighter, colder, and not sweet and soft like Peeta's. I like them, though. They're strong. I need someone to be strong.

"Your eyes are cool," he whispers seriously.

"Thanks. Yours are, too," I whisper back.

"Everybody says that," he tells me conspiratorially. "Like, everybody. All the girls."

I snort, trying not to laugh and completely failing. "That's typically not a good answer when people complement you. Just a tip."

"Oh," he says after a second, and then he just keeps staring into my eyes.

"This is maybe a little weird," I say, making a face.

"Okay." He nods seriously and gently pushes my face away. "But don't go too far away."

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Don't want to lose you, too. You're pretty badass."

I don't know how to respond to this, so I don't say anything. He's spaced out on drugs, so I really don't think he's faking it. I kind of wish he was, because then I wouldn't have to face up to the fact that he likes me.

"So are you," I finally answer. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. Good. Hey, let's watch the games," he suggests.

"Uh, no. No, let's not do that."

But he won't be deterred. "No, come on, let's do that. Come on," he begs.

I give in. I'll have to see it eventually, and it's probably better that I do it here, rather than in an interview where it's completely inappropriate for me to cry. So I turn on the games.

It's not hard to find some channel recapping the whole thing, using the official footage and some extras to support their favorite contestants. The particular version I find is focusing on me and Cato, predictably, comparing our progress throughout the games, where our paths intersected and then finally intertwined.

Obviously, they cut out significant portions, like when we were sleeping, or condensed the parts where I walked for hours and he confidently wandered around with the other careers, but the significant parts – where he tried to kill me in the tree, where I blew up their supplies, Rue's death, and the entire last six hours – document nearly everything that happened.

"You should've won," he says to me after watching my actions during the first few days. "You played really smart."

"I guess. I was just trying to stay alive, that's all."

"You did a really good job. I'm surprised that little girl had the guts to get near you."

"Rue. Her name was Rue."

"Right. She'd never be able to stop you."

"But what if you caught me?"

"Oh. Well then yeah, we'd probably kill you in really awful way. Make you beg for your life or something. Maybe… I don't know. That's probably not a good thing to talk about." I say nothing, because I have this huge, terrifying knot in my stomach from his casual statement. "Are you mad?" he asks, turning to look at me.

"No." Yes.

"Why? What'd I do?"

"Nothing." I shake my head. I can't say more than one word or I'll cry.

I can feel him looking at me. "No, it's something. Is it because I said I'd kill you?"

"Nope." Yep.

"I didn't mean anything by it. I thought… I thought you wanted me to be honest."

"Yeah." I nod, biting my lip.

"Then I don't understand," he decides after a moment of thought. "Cut me some slack, though. I'm not at one hundred percent."

"Yep." It's getting increasingly hard to stick with the one-word answers.

"Katniss," he sighs. "Stop being like this. Tell me what I did. Please."

I don't answer, and he twists more towards me, trying to look me in the eyes, but I do my best to avoid his. Finally, he takes one giant hand and turns my head so I'm looking back in his eyes from an uncomfortably close distance. "Tell me," he says again.

"Tell you… tell you what?" I choke out, but my voice catches halfway through, and he notices, frowning at me.

"Okay, that was really obvious," he observes. "Are you still gonna say it didn't happen?"

"Maybe."

"Tell me what I did," he asks again. "Please. So I can make it up to you."

"You can't make it up to me. It's kind of impossible to make up for trying to kill somebody, so… I don't know what you want me to say," I say, trying to smile instead of cry.

"Is that what you're upset about?" he says slowly.

I tighten my lips. "I'm fine." I start to stand up. But then he locks his fingers around my arm, stopping me. His strength is irresistible, even while he's tripping on this medication, and it's a intimidating. "Let go of me," I say stiffly.

"No, tell me. I just told you like, everything you wanted to know. And I just want to know so I can say I'm sorry. That's good, right?"

He genuinely has to check, I realize. "Yeah, it's good, but…"

"Listen." Easily, he yanks me back down onto the ground next to me. "I won't say that again," he tells me very, very solemnly. "But don't go. Please."

That's the third time he's said please, trying to get me to stay here, and I know he's not the type of person to beg. He's trying, he really is, and some combination of drugs and brainwashing kept him from realizing that was the wrong thing to say. It's not his fault. He didn't mean it.

I hope.

"Okay," I sigh, covertly wiping my eyes with my fingers. He tries to put his arm around me again so we're sitting close like before, but I squirm away. So he tries again, but it's not hard to avoid his grasp.

"Katniss," he moans, and finally drops his head onto my shoulder. "I'm really sorry," he mutters, watching me blow up their supplies.

I don't squirm away from him right away. "Okay." I take several deep breaths. "Okay."

"And I'll never try to kill you again."

That gives me pause. His mumbled promise means more to me than even I was expecting, no matter how much I tell myself it's not him saying that, it's the morphling. "Don't make any promises you don't mean," I say, being very careful not to move the shoulder he's leaning on. "Lying isn't going to make me feel any better."

"I'm not lying. I'm not," he says stubbornly. I can hear a pout in his voice. "I'm not going to try to kill you ever. It's not like we'll ever be in the games again."

Very true. "Okay," I say.

"Okay you're not mad at me anymore, or okay you don't believe me?" he asks patiently.

I take the time to think about my answer. "I believe you."

"But you're still mad."

I don't deny it, and he doesn't try to make me feel any better. Peeta would've; he always wanted me to feel better. But Cato doesn't say a word. He lets me be mad. In return, I shift a little so his head fits better on my shoulder, put my arm around him, and hold onto him. "Don't fall asleep," I remind him grudgingly.

"I won't," he says. "How could I fall asleep when you're doing that?" He points at the TV, where I'm aiming at the apples on top of the career's pyramid of supplies. I shoot, and the bag splits open. Then I shoot again, and the pile explodes, blowing me backwards. "Did that hurt?" he asks me curiously.

"Yeah. I was deaf in one ear for a while, but they fixed that."

"Oh, cool."

We watch silently as he snaps the neck of the District 4 boy. I feel an echo of my original fear at seeing that, but it's different. He did what he had to in there, and so did I. I mean, he doesn't react when I shoot his ally, Marvel, through the neck. Circumstances were different in there.

"Remember what I said about stuff in the arena not counting?" I ask offhand.

"Yeah," he murmurs, not moving.

"What do you think about it?"

He takes a while to respond. "It'd be nice if it worked like that. But it doesn't."

"What if it could?"

He turns to look up at me. "How would that happen?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"If we agree on it, maybe?" I suggest.

"You don't want it to count either?"

"No, I don't." It's stupid and naïve, but I don't.

"Mmm." He leans into me. "Okay. Then it doesn't count. So does that mean you don't hate me now?" he asks hopefully.

"I didn't hate you. Not since we got out of this," I admit in a small voice.

He doesn't seem to notice how stupid I just was. "Oh good. I don't hate you either," he says cheerfully. "So that's good."

I suddenly have a little trouble breathing, and there's a warm feeling in my chest that I'm unfamiliar with. Roughly, I kind of nudge him, or try to; he weighs too much for me to actually do much good. "You're a lot weirder when you're not trying to kill me," I say, smiling a little bit.

"Most people are," he observes. "Dude, no wonder we couldn't find him."

I frown, then look at the screen – Peeta's painted like a rock, lying on the ground, and I'm talking to him, looking so much more anxious than I remember feeling. "Oh. Yeah," I say distantly, noticing the dark, deep wound in Peeta's leg. The wound that Cato inflicted.

"I'm not sorry I hurt him. If we were in there, I'd probably do it again," he says abruptly, then immediately follows up with, "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

It's too late. The damage is done. As he says it, I feel something inside me crack. Suddenly, I hate myself for sitting here with him, holding him, comforting him. I feel icky, and I want nothing more than to not be here.

I don't move, but I guess he can feel me stiffen, because he says glumly, "Now you hate me, don't you. Would it help if I said it was all the morphling?"

"No."

He groans in exasperation. "I'm really, really good at making you upset. Does that count as a talent?" I don't answer, but apparently he hears one. "Jerk," he mutters at a chair, then says to me. "You can go. I won't fall asleep and die, I promise."

I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm frozen, because even with that opening, I don't move.

"Go," Cato insists, clumsily pushing me away from him. "It's okay, I'm an idiot. Go." So I go. I sit in the chair several feet from him, but I don't leave the room. Somehow, I still don't want him to die. Then I'd really be alone.

I watch from there as he slides onto the floor, flops onto his side and then rolls over onto his back. Wearily, he throws his arms over his face and heaves a deep sigh. Then he's silent for a very suspicious amount of time.

"Are you-" I start to ask.

"Still awake," he assures me, giving me a thumbs up. "If I was that easy to kill, I wouldn't have made it this far. I'll be fine, calm down. That drunk guy doesn't give me enough credit."

"Haymitch," I correct him. "And still."

"You sure? You don't want me to die?" He sounds skeptical.

I'm not sure how to answer that. "Everything isn't always in black and white," I finally decide on saying. "I can be mad at you without wanting to kill you. And you can be an idiot without being my enemy."

"Oh." He sounds surprised. "Really?"

"Yep. And I am mad at you, idiot."

"That's okay. I can handle that. Most people are mad at me."

I know he's not a monster – I've known that for a while now – but these offhand statements he keeps making only underline that. I don't stop being mad at him or anything, but I think I'm beginning to understand him, at least. So I keep one eye on him while I half-heartedly watch the games, to make sure he still doesn't sleep.

We've got about two or three hours left before the morphling wears off and he can sleep. I'm not sure how long we're there in that room, watching ourselves fight and kill. He doesn't move from his spot on the floor for most of that time, doesn't watch anything that happens. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling. But then, he sits up, looking at the screen intensely.

I haven't been paying attention to what part of the games they're showing, so I'm taken off-guard. I glance at the screen; they're showing me, when the rain started and my package came. And Cato's staring intently at the picture of me. I watch myself realize Cato's in trouble, panic, and start to run. I look so terrified, and thinking back, I didn't even know why. Didn't want to be alone, I guess, but in the moment, I just knew I was scared.

"Why'd you run?" he asks.

"What?" I stall.

"Why'd you run right there?" he repeats, twisting his head around so he can look at me.

"I was scared," I say slowly, almost a question.

"Yeah, but why? Did you think I'd escape?"

I wish I could say yes. "No… but maybe I should've worried about that."

"Then what are you worried about?" He sits up more and points at the screen with his good hand. "Because it's obviously something."

Reluctantly, I look at my own face, scratched up and drained of color, and I know there's no denying this. "Yeah, it was something," I say reluctantly.

We watch me dive into the cave without a second thought, and a camera inside the cave catches my face when I see he's under water. I remember how that felt, just for a second, and I'm scared he's drowning all over again. Breathlessly, I watch me rescue him. The girl in the footage isn't about to let anything happen that isn't part of her plan. I wish I could find some of that strength right now.

"You were scared for me?" he asks.

I don't have an answer, because I was, I was petrified for him, that he'd be dead and that I'd be alone. But I can't tell him that. That's too stupid, even for me.

Cato pulls himself to his knees, shuffles over to me and slowly puts his head in my lap, reaching up his good arm to take my hand and hold it gently his giant fingers. I don't know what to do, but I don't move. What's happening feels delicate, breakable, and very, very precious. I can't damage this moment.

Still, I have to ask, "What are you doing?" My voice shakes almost uncontrollably.

"Thank you," he says, muffled.

"For what?"

"You're… you…" He can't seem to finish that sentence, so he starts in on another. "I shouldn't say this. But you're completely… the best person I've ever met."

"No, I'm… I'm not, really I'm not," I say hastily. "I've done really awful things that you just don't know about-"

"Shut up," he says, sounding muffled and amused.

"Okay." Hesitantly, I put my hand on top of his head, feeling the coarseness of his hair. This feels really weird, him being so vulnerable and kind, but I like it. I like him.

That realization bowls me over. I like him. I like how he's there for me and how he's strong. I like his ruthlessness, his quiet, surprising kindness. Everything. I like him, and I never want to let him leave me.

"Get up here," I say to him. "Come here," I repeat when he doesn't move. He hauls himself up, climbs into the chair next to me, and kind of curls up next to me so his head is on my shoulder, his arms loosely around my waist, his legs half on top of mine. "Don't fall asleep," I warn him, then promptly drift off myself. I didn't even know I was tired, but then he's so warm, draped over me like this, and everything is so secure. So yeah. I fall asleep.

I haven't really slept in ages. The few hours I got last night don't count. Neither does the drug-induced sleep they gave me while they were turning me back into me. But this definitely counts.

After a few hours, I jolt awake with the sudden realization that Cato could be dead right now, all because of me. "Cato," I say loudly, wrenching my eyes open. It's dark outside, the room lit only by the glow of the television screen. For a second, I can't feel anything, just my own blind panic.

But he's right here, holding onto me. He hasn't moved an inch. "I'm here," he murmurs. I look down at him; his eyes are open, and he's watching footage of him and me in the training facility earlier. "So you can go back to sleep."

"Oh good," I sigh, and after a second, I actually do. There's none of the usual paranoia about what might happen if I let myself sleep, none of the worry, because he's completely capable of taking care of both of us. And I think I actually trust him to.

I let my eyes shut again, fall back into that place halfway between conscious and sleep, and then I hear something. Someone knocks on the door, and then it opens and people walk in. Next to me, Cato stiffens. I know that means I should be worried, too, but I can't bring myself to be any more awake, because – I realize – I'm exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" Cato says in a low, dangerous voice.

"Come now. That's no way to speak to your president."

A scent drifts into my head. Blood and roses.

"What are you doing here?" is all Cato says again, sitting up straight, keeping only one arm around me.

"Looking for the victor," Snow says pointedly. "She and I have some unfinished business. Though it seems that perhaps the same may be true for the two of you, as well."

"She's busy right now," Cato answers coldly. "What do you want?"

The smell gets stronger, and someone sits on the couch. "Not that it's any business of yours, but Miss Everdeen owes the people of the Capitol a small favor."

"What kind of favor?" That's the question I would ask if I could pull myself into consciousness, so I'm glad Cato asks for me.

"I'm sure you're aware of the radiant beauty your co-victor unconsciously possesses," Snow begins pompously. Drowsily, I hate the sound of his voice, then realize he's talking about _my_ radiant beauty.

"What's your point?" Cato says gruffly, and it's impossible to tell if he's agreeing or not.

"She's become somewhat of a city-wide sensation. In high demand. I just have a proposition for her. That's all. But seeing as she's… busy, I suppose we'll have to talk another time. Good day."

Retreating footsteps, and then the smell of blood and roses is just a lingering echo. Beside me, Cato shifts uncomfortably, then gets up, leaving me cold and alone. "Hey," I mumble, frowning, and blindly reach out for him.

"Stay right here. I'll be back in just a second," he says. He puts something warm over me, his hand hesitating on my shoulder, and then he's gone.

I don't know how much time passes before he comes back; I drift in and out of sleep peacefully. At some point he comes back with Haymitch, and they talk, but I don't really listen. This is the first time I've felt peaceful since before the games, and I like it. The significance of their words escapes me, so my sleep is undisturbed. I don't even dream, which is a miracle in and of itself. And right before I fall completely asleep, I decide I could maybe get used to this.

-xXx-

**A/N – extended edition!**

**First of all, I'm going to respond to the reviewers. To everyone who said something sweet about me/my story/this chapter – Tally Jennifer Youngblood, Fanpire109, scoco, Saucy-Duck, Nilrecurring, munroxochika, RachRox12, ..Attic, books-n-cookies, londoneyedgirl, LvR93, ILove2Write13 – thank you so much! I'll never take all this positive reinforcement for granted. You all rock! And now, I'm going to answer the more specific concerns. **

**ngochan: You brought up if there's the possibility of Cato coming back to Twelve with them. You even used puppy dog eyes. To you I can only say that I REALLY WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TOO, but I will not say definitely yes or definitely no, because of spoilers. But I want this to happen.**

**Elea121: In response to your question about how Haymitch's reaction to Peeta's death may be too strong – I see what you're saying about Haymitch training a bunch of other kids and seeing them die, but I think Peeta's death would've hit him particularly hard for the following reasons. He thought Peeta was a fighter, as stated in the books, and he wanted him to win, too, if at all possible. I think he sympathizes with Peeta's star-crossed love thing. Haymitch always seemed to me to be a big softie who hates it, so I think he deeply mourned all the kids who died, but didn't let himself show it. There's a line at the end of Mockingjay, the one where he contributes the names of children he coached to died to the book of people to never forget, that supports my theory. Plus, he trained Peeta separate from Katniss. He spent just as much time with him as he did with Katniss. True, he and Katniss had a connection, but I think he and Peeta had an understanding by that point, at least.**

**Dra9onf7yz: You, being an apparent archer (which is freaking cool), picked up on the fact that a hand injury wouldn't kill someone. This is true. I admit I took some liberties with that. But in my defense, using your hurt anything is going to result in more blood loss than normal. Also, there's several huge nerves running through your hand, nerves that are very painful to get severed or injured. So in terms of just **_**hurting**_**, I'm going to stick by my assertion that it's one of the most painful things ever, aside from like, a broken femur. Hence the morphling, hence the subsequent loopiness.**

**Merekat6: I already answered you privately, but I'm going to also restate the answer here, so everyone else will know. I plan on continuing this until the next Quarter Quell, at least. I haven't even thought about how the whole plot of Mockingjay would change without Peeta, but I'll get there when I get there. Until then, rest assured that this isn't going to end before the 75****th**** games. **

**MsCassity: You didn't particularly ask a question, but you deserve a separate mention. Your consistent and detailed compliments completely blow me away every time. I mean, I've thought through my character's motivations and personalities, but you somehow manage to put things a different way and give me the perfect idea for a backstory, or a phrase that I may borrow some time in the future. You. Rock. That is all. **

**In fact, you all do. Everybody who's reviewed and all of you who lurk and read, you're all amazing. I heart you. Even my mom and sister, who make me very nervous by reading this. Have a wonderful day!**

**VOLDEMORT OUT.**


	10. Chapter 10: Cato

**A/N: All of your theories about what will happen were very interesting to read. Some of you got super-creative, and I hate to disappoint you with this very-shocking-plot-twist-free chapter. Reviews and question answers at the end, as well as the update about your bonus material.**

"Don't fall asleep," Katniss instructs firmly, but she doesn't listen to her own advice. She's out in minutes, leaning on my shoulder, completely limp. Doesn't seem to care that I'm here. It even seems like she might be comforted by it, but that's probably just me.

I don't care that she's sleeping; I don't need somebody babysitting me to stay awake, even with high-end morphling in my system. The TV is enough to keep me up, especially with so much of Katniss on the screen. I could watch her for hours. She fights so fiercely when she has to, with a lot more skill than anyone from twelve in the tapes I've seen. But the weird thing is that she doesn't. It's pretty obvious that she hates hurting the other tributes; she flinches when she hears the scream of the girl I killed. And I can't stop watching that because I want to figure out how she does that.

It makes me feel weird, seeing her so scared and knowing it's because of me. She never let herself look that terrified while I was around. I killed the girl she tried to save. I guess that's the difference between her and me right there.

She jerks awake after several hours, and the first thing she says is my name. "Cato!"

She sounds scared, and for a second, I am, too. "I'm here," I say, to calm her down. She wakes doesn't have to be scared right now. "You can go back to sleep," I add, because if she really wakes up, maybe she won't stay here with me.

"Oh good," she sighs, sounding content, and relaxes back into sleep.

I don't know if I can remember when I was ever happier than I am now, because she's sleeping on me again. Once would probably be just chance, but twice… twice means she trusts me at least a little bit.

I mean, I know she's said something like that before, and she's done a lot that could mean she trusts me, but this is different. You never sleep in front of someone you don't trust.

I guess I should stop being surprised by her, but I've got a feeling that's never gonna happen.

The elevator doors open an hour after she falls back asleep. At first, I think it's Haymitch – he should be back some time soon. It's getting late, and mentors are supposed to be with their tributes at least most of the time. But then I see who it actually is.

President Snow.

"What are you doing here?" I say quietly, so I don't wake up Katniss.

The old man's as creepy as always, looking at the two of us like he's gonna eat us alive. He frowns, mildly disapproving. "Come now. That's no way to speak to your president."

"What are you doing here?" I repeat, because I can't think enough to figure out something better to say.

"Looking for the victor," he says, with a pointed look at Katniss. "She and I have some… unfinished business. Though it seems that perhaps the same may be true for the two of you, as well."

Definitely not. No. He can't be disgusting like that, not about her and me.

The instant I feel myself getting emotional about this, I shut that part of me down, go cold just like they taught me to do. "She's busy right now," I tell him. "What do you want?"

Snow walks calmly towards us. I get ready to defend us if he attacks, but he just sits down on the couch near us. "Not that it's any business of yours, but Miss Everdeen owes the people of the Capitol a small favor."

"What kind of favor?" I ask suspiciously. He's not waking her. I won't let him.

"I'm sure you're aware of the radiant beauty your co-victor unconsciously possesses," he starts off, and I hate him more for sounding so arrogant, for complimenting her when he obviously doesn't care about her or anyone. He probably wishes I were dead.

"What's your point?" I say, hoping he can't tell what I think from my voice. I've gotten soft since the Games. I just hope I haven't slipped that far.

"She's become somewhat of a city-wide sensation. In high demand. I just have a proposition for her. That's all. But seeing as she's busy, I suppose we'll have to talk another time. Good day." He gets up and leaves before I can answer. Definitely wishes I were dead.

The way he said everything was so innocent and almost friendly that it takes a second for the real meaning to sink in. All that stuff about favors and owing people, her being in high demand, that's just covering up what he really meant – he's going to sell her.

They warned us this could happen if we got popular during the Games, but it didn't occur to me that he could do it to her, too. It makes sense, though. She's the Girl on Fire. I can't imagine how many Capitol citizens would give all they have to spend the night with her.

Except I'm not going to let that happen. She's going to hate the idea; anybody with half a brain knows that. But on top of that, almost more importantly, I hate the idea, too. One thought of her, in bed with someone she hates, being forced to–

I get me angry, the old kind of angry, where my heart speeds up and my vision goes blurry for a second, where I can taste it heavy in my mouth. Suddenly, I can't stay here with her. I have to do something. I stand up slowly, easing my way out of her arms, being careful not to crush her. She frowns in her sleep and blindly reaches out for me. "Hey."

I can't stay, even if seeing her reach for me makes me really want to. "Stay right here. I'll be back in just a second," I say softly. Hastily, I pull a blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over her. That seems to do the trick. So while she's content-looking and I'm still furious, I get in the elevator.

I need to find her mentor, Haymitch. He'll know what to do. She's his responsibility, they're from the same place, know the same people. He'll get angry too and he'll solve this. But first I have to find him.

Enobaria made some off-hand comment before the Games, something about him spending a lot of time at a bar next door, so I start there. A few camera crews start following me when I leave the building, but not that many. Most people are over the Games already, moving on to the next big thing.

He's at the bar, thankfully. I've never been so grateful to see someone getting hammered. "Hey," I say, anger fading, unsure how to break the news.

"HEY!" he says enthusiastically, swinging his arm out towards me and spilling some of his whiskey. I'm not sure he knows who I am, but then he adds, "Lemme guess. You killed her and you're here to finish me off for good measure. Don't try it. I'm dangerous."

"No, I'm not… I didn't kill her. I'm not going to do that," I say, trying to stay calm. Getting mad at him isn't going to help – he won't listen to me, and he definitely won't believe that I'm trying to save her from Snow. "I need your help."

"Yeah? Well I'm not telling you anything. Ask her," he grunts, turning back to the bar.

Tentatively, I sit next to him on another stool, half-expecting him to punch me, but he doesn't. "I don't want that either. I'm not going to hurt her," I insist.

"Sure," he mutters, shrugging clumsily. He drains his glass and grabs another. "So what?"

"President Snow visited us, like a minute ago," I start.

"Finally. If he didn't get his act together soon with the congratulating, I was going to storm his place," Haymitch snorts sounding vaguely amused and motioning towards the President's mansion. "Don't flip your lid, kid. That's how things go around here."

"No, he didn't congratulate us or whatever. He was threating and weird," I try to explain.

"Par for the course," Haymitch shrugs.

"No, he was… he threatened _her_. He's going to sell her," I finally say, very quietly, glancing around to make sure nobody else is listening.

That gets his attention. He turns to me sharply, suddenly really steady for a drunk guy. "You're serious?" he says sharply, looking me directly in the eyes.

"Yeah."

"What'd she say?" The drink is forgotten in his hand.

"She was asleep, she didn't say anything."

"Okay, so what did _you_ say?" he asks impatiently.

"He didn't give me a chance to say much." I'm glad he didn't, because I would've probably yelled and sworn at him, and that seems like it might have been counter-productive.

"Then what the hell do you want from me?" He's back to sounding drunk and angry.

"Stop it from happening. He can't do that to her," I say, not letting myself get upset again.

"Yeah? Why not? What's stopping him? He's the president." He finishes another drink.

"I'll stop him," I say firmly. "But I'm not good at making plans. I don't want to do something stupid and make things worse for her. So you need to _help_." I accidentally let a little of my anger show, and Haymitch looks at me, surprised.

"I _need_ to?" he says skeptically.

"Yeah. Because you like her too."

He looks thoughtful. "Too?" he finally repeats.

Shit. I just admitted I like her. But judging by the small smile on his face, he likes that. So I nod and say, "Yeah. Too."

"Alright," he nods agreeably. "Sure. Fine. Let's go." He gets up and walks with me back to the training facility, gets in the elevator. He strokes his beard thoughtfully and is silent until we're back in the room. "So what exactly happened?" he asks.

"Snow came in and threatened her."

He waves his hand dismissively. "You said that already. Threatened how?"

I have to tell him everything eventually. Might as well be now. "He said she was beautiful, that she owed the citizens of the Capitol favors. What the hell do you _think_ he meant?" Seeing her there, asleep in the chair, is making me angry again, the old, dangerous kind.

The guy curses for about a minute, really creatively and impressively, and wanders over to the sideboard into the dining room and pours himself a drink. "Can't say that I didn't see it coming, though," he shrugs, taking a drink. "But what's it to you, eh?" he narrows his eyes.

"What do you-"

He cuts me off. "Why do you care about what they do to her? Some kind of guilt?"

"I'm not…" I can't deny it – I'm not good at lying when I'm like this, all emotional. "Yeah, maybe. But that shouldn't-"

Haymitch watches me flounder, shakes his head. "Don't sweat it, kid. Drink?" he offers.

"No." I can't get drunk right now. I need to think straight right now.

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. So what the hell do you expect me to do?" he says flatly.

Is he serious? "Fight it." Of course.

"Great idea," he snorts, raising his eyebrows and taking a sip. "But news flash; I don't have favors left to call in. None for something like this. Besides. It's what happens sometimes. You should know that," he says grumpily.

"Yeah." I guess I should. But I was hoping he'd pull off something miraculous.

He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, drinking more. "But you really want to stop it."

"Is that wrong?" I kind of don't want to hear his answer.

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "Just… unexpected." He finishes the whiskey. "You know what the only way to stop them is."

I can't tell if he's asking or telling. "No. What?"

"Make your claim. Have a problem with that?"

The question feels like a test. Instantly, I frown at his words, but not because I have a problem. "What if she does, though?" I say, not answering him.

He kind of laughs. "She won't," he says, raising his eyebrows.

I don't know what that means. I don't even know if I can trust him. But I have to, because I don't have any other options. "Okay," I say. "You're sure about that?"

"Don't trust me? Fine. But I'll tell you this – Snow can't sell a girl in a popular public relationship. Especially if she's in love. Especially with you, and your…" He motions at me in general. "That."

"Okay. How should I do that?" I'm going to do whatever he says. I just need to know what that is. I'm good at following orders – too good – but I need to have some first.

"Kiss her," he says immediately. "On camera. Make it look like you got caught. Can ya handle that?" For the first time, he's not being sarcastic with me; he's actually asking. Almost seems concerned about me, which is really weird.

"Yeah, I can." I can handle anything.

"Of course you can," he chuckles, running his finger along the rim of the glass. "I'm gonna hit the hay." He stands abruptly, leaving the glass on the table. "Don't wake her up. I'm surprised she can sleep at all," he adds, half to himself.

"Okay," I agree.

"Wake her up at midnight. All those brainless idiots'll be partying hard, they'll see you," he says in disgust. He looks over at Katniss briefly. I can tell he cares about her from the way he stops looking angry, but then he notices me noticing him, and he glares fiercely again. "Midnight," he repeats and goes into his room.

About two hours before I wake her up, so I go to the training room, the one downstairs, because I don't want anyone to see me this time. I stop in my room to grab some training clothes. Her designer makes comfortable clothes, but they're not workout clothes. I throw on some shorts and a tank top, then go down and start to fight.

The room has all the equipment from before the Games, a couple Avox who replenish all the weapons and bring out new dummies for me to kill, so it's pretty much heaven. Late night workouts have always been a thing for me. A lot of nights, the trainers would keep us training till dawn, and on the rare nights that they let us sleep, I'd usually sneak out to the training room to squeeze in extra hours without everyone else around. Clove would come down too, most nights. But she won't be here tonight.

I kill about two hundred fake people with swords, knives, spears. It's comforting, kind of, to do something I know I can do really well. I don't have to doubt anything. But then it's a quarter till midnight, so I stop and leave. Since I'm gonna be on camera, I take a quick shower, and then it's back up to her floor again.

She's still in the chair, looking really peaceful. I kind of hate to wake her up, but then I remember why I'm doing this; so she doesn't end up in the room of some overdressed idiot with too much money and not enough morals. That isn't going to happen.

I reach out for her shoulder.

**-xXx-**

**Wow, morphling Cato got a lot of love. Literally everyone liked that part specifically. I'll keep that in mind for later****…**

**scoco: That metaphor actually made sense to me. Is that bad? But now I'm envisioning like a Tangled-esque flower that glows because of all of our feels about this particular ship. I profusely thank **_**you**_** for your perfect metaphor.**

**ngochan/scoco: That line about Cato's "talent" made everybody laugh, apparently, so I'm going to go ahead and claim it was intentionally funny. **

**ngochan: As you will discover in this chapter and the next, several of your predictions are correct, and all of them are at least partially right. We're on the same wavelength, here, except I think I'm meaner because I'm going to save a few key events for way later. But I promise you'll all get your fluffy moments eventually!**

**Tally Jennifer Youngblood: You'll find out! Well, by now actually, you've found out. So. When you asked if they end up together "before that", what was the "that" you're referring to? I'm taking it pretty slow, so I think it's safe to say no without being sure what you mean. :)**

**ILove2Write13: :) I'm trying really hard to keep Katniss human and not a Mary Sue, because that's like a major theme of the original books and I love it, so your review really was what I needed to hear. Both of your suggestions for different POVs – Cato while he's on morphling and Haymitch during the cave scenes – were really, really good. I think I'm going to write both. See my comments below for the whole rundown, but basically I've changed what my bonus to you guys is going to be based on the fact that I can't decide between your two amazing suggestions.**

**LvR93: Thank you thank you thank you! Glad to hear you're in this for the long haul with me. Also, I follow you on Tumblr now, and your previous art looks supercool! I can't wait to see what you create.**

**Sangre Roja Luna: I completely understand where you're coming from. Now that the movie is out and everything, there's more fics out there, but – and I don't mean to sound arrogant – most of them aren't that good. I'm so glad you like mine! (though we have yet to see if it's a masterpiece) Also, I'm super impressed that you've read every Kato fic over 10K words. That's dedication right there. Props to you. **

**MsCassity: I don't know how many different ways I can say that you perfectly understand my characters. It's kind of scary. But yeah, Cato's not immune to emotional pain as much as he is to the physical stuff, because that part of him was pretty much ignored while he was training. I see District 2 as being almost socialist if that makes sense? Because everything's about the collective district, so yeah, in a way the tributes are selfless. And psychotic killers. I'm sorry I hurt you with their talking! Don't be sad! They'll get their humanity back in time. **

**.: you didn't really ask a question, but you did mention that you don't really read Kato. EXCEPT FOR THIS. I think that means I get to gloat about turning you. So I'm gloating. Yay! Join us on the ship that will never be! More information about Cato's past/family is forthcoming. **

**lambtastic: You didn't ask a question either, but I had to let you know that your description of Cato as "hella cute" made me burst out laughing. **

**kerryskulls: Like you, I love their relationship, so don't worry. Whatever I do will shed some more light on it/them. That Victor's Village scene is a very good idea****…**** it's officially in the running. I have such cool readers with awesome ideas. **

**Elea121: Nice catch, with the occupied houses in 2 thing, but no, it's not exactly leading straight to him going home with them. Seriously, though, I'm impressed that you saw that tiny bit of foreshadowing. You win an observant reader prize or something. I should actually make that a thing. **

**I really do want to reply to each of your reviews individually and thank each of you for the beautiful nice things you say about me, but this chapter alone got 26 separate reviews, and that's entirely too much to do, so if you said something nice that wasn't necessarily a question, know that I value your reviews just as much, but it's all coming down to time. The more time I spend thanking, the less time I spend writing. So to Scarstellstories, Peenis0314, ..Attic, criticderomance, xxShayaxx, msslss, geranium08, TheFaceOfTheRebellion, Dra9onf7yz, Jaspersdoll, celine-twilightadict, ileanamty, Lilac Alyssa Halliwell, ariaadne, Bloodredfirefly, and books-n-cookies, I say one big THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU'RE AMAZING OMG STOP YOU'RE MAKING ME BLUSH 3. **

**As I hinted at in ILove2Write13's review answer, my bonus to ya'll has officially changed. I've been getting a ton of good suggestions for the alternate P.O.V, plus I've been writing a few one-shot type things along the way for various characters. So. This is what I'm gonna do: at 200 reviews, I'll post a collective chapter with every bonus P.O.V. that I've written for the story so far, including Haymitch, Cato, and Gale. This way everybody's happy and I get to do ALL the things. **

**Thanks for being continuously awesome and leaving ridiculously nice reviews! Now, on to the relationship development!**


	11. Chapter 11

A hand on my shoulder wakes me up. "Katniss."

I pull open my heavy eyelids and find myself looking into Cato's blue eyes. "Hi," I mumble. "What time is it?"

"Midnight."

I start to stretch my arms and legs, but then they stick out of the blanket on top of me, so I curl back up again. "And you're not dead. That's good," I observe sleepily.

"Yeah." He almost smiles. "I guess that is." His face gets serious again. "Did you hear anything while you were out?"

"Yeah, something about President Snow?" I frown. "Maybe? I smelled him. Is he here?"

"No. But he was."

"What'd he want?"

Cato doesn't answer. "Can I…" he starts to ask.

"Yeah, sure, come sit down."

He sits next to me again, but he's not loopy anymore. He's very serious. "Do you really not hate me?" he asks.

"Yeah, no, I don't."

"How much do you not hate me?"

"Why does it matter?" I try to smile, to lighten the moment, but it doesn't work.

"It does, okay, it just… does."

"Just tell me what you want me to do," I sigh, slightly annoyed with how weird he's being.

"I, um…"

"Where's Haymitch?" I am definitely frustrated now. Without waiting for his answer, I get up and walk straight for Haymitch's bedroom. "Haymitch!" I shout, exasperated, ignoring Cato, who's following me.

"It's for your own good," Haymitch says, without turning to look at me.

I glare at him. "What the hell are you talking about? Is there something going on that I don't know about?" I ask him and Cato, crossing my arms.

"No," Cato says.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "You didn't even tell her?" he says to Cato.

"I didn't have the chance."

"Tell me what?" I say dangerously.

"Calm down, sweetheart," Haymitch chuckles.

I am not calm. For the second time, my mentor and a boy are talking vaguely about me. "Just tell me what you want me to do," I repeat, taking several deep breaths.

"Alright. Remember our long-term plan?" Haymitch asks, deadpan.

"Friendship?" I say hopefully.

"Oh great," Haymitch sighs. "Not this again." He turns to Cato. "She's been in denial about this love thing from the start. With him and with you."

"I'm not in love with-"

He stops me. "Maybe you could try listening, sweetheart." He's definitely saying that sarcastically; I've made him upset. He needs me to be insightful. He needs me to be smart here.

I remember the plan now, the one he told me about quickly before the interview. I have to be love-struck. I have to be in love with Cato. Guess I blocked that somehow.

But he'd said we'd work up to that. He said I'd have time. He said I had to be in mourning. "The plan," I say shakily. "But what about Peeta? I have to… get over him."

"Okay," Cato nods.

"And what about our credibility? They'll know we're faking it."

"Kidding me? You've been doing nothing but setting the stage," Haymitch snorts.

Figures he would've had me doing what I needed to do without my knowing. "Why are we doing this now, though? I thought we had time," I say, as a last-ditch effort.

"We did have time. Now we don't," Haymitch says abruptly, and takes another drink. "Do you trust me?" he asks before I can argue with him.

I look into his eyes. Grey eyes. Seam eyes. Eyes like mine. "Of course."

"Then don't make me explain. Trust both of us."

"And do what?" I ask for the third time.

"Shower and get dressed. Look nice, but not too nice. Then go with him."

I don't know what to make of Haymitch right now, of him planning with Cato and being so clear and direct with his orders. So I look to Cato, but he just looks at me, his face carefully emotionless and serious. Something about him is begging me to believe in him, though, to believe that he wants to keep me safe.

"Fine," I say abruptly. "Give me ten minutes." I don't wait for their answer.

Abruptly, I pivot on my heel and head to my bathroom. I almost have the knobs figured out now, so there's no strange foams or scrubs sprayed on me. Just rose-scented soap and a buttery-feeling conditioner to make my hair smooth and shiny.

I throw on the first pair of comfortable, nice-looking clothes that my closet gives me; a deep green sleeveless shirt and tight black pants, like before, on the train. Somebody put my mockingjay pin on the side table by my bed after we won, but I only notice it now. So I pin it on, remembering how comforting it was before the games, how reassuring. I try to grab onto that feeling again, but I can't find it.

"Alright," I say, walking into the main room where Haymitch is drinking and Cato is just sitting. "Is this good enough?" Reluctantly, I throw my arms out to my sides so they can see me. "Just a warning; if you say no, I'm still not changing."

Haymitch chuckles. "You look fine." He motions me towards Cato, saying to him, "If I don't see you on television in five minutes, I'll kill you."

Cato nods and stands up. I notice he's got a dark blue shirt on that makes his eyes look like two pieces of the sky stuck in his face. Wordlessly, he holds his hand out to me. After only a few seconds, I take it, let him lead me out into the elevator. His eyes are dark and determined, his hand around mine gentle and strong. I almost feel like I can handle anything with him next to me.

"What are we doing?" I ask, only this time, it's more like begging.

"I know you need to get over your guy," he says, looking down into my eyes. "I get that. But they don't. So you've got to do things you usually wouldn't."

"Like what?"

"Like trust me."

"I would've done that anyways," I admit in a very small voice.

He doesn't answer; doesn't remark upon my stupidity. He just stares at me. And then, as the elevator doors open, he leans down and puts his lips over mine.

My brain short-circuits; I can almost see sparks behind my eyes. I don't know what he's doing – I mean, I do, this must be what Haymitch was talking about, but somehow, even staged kisses confuse me. I didn't know he could fake love this well, with his hands gently cradling my face, his fingers getting caught in my hair. And I didn't know I could either, but my hands are drifting up to his shoulders, holding on, partially to keep myself from falling.

Blood is rushing in my ears, pounding frantically, but over that, I can hear the gasps and whispers of a gathering crowd. Lights flash on our faces, throwing Cato's features into sharp relief, and the red lights of a dozen cameras catch my attention out of the corner of my eye. We're going to be on televisions everywhere in seconds.

Finally, he lets go, pulling back a few inches, enough for us to look at each other. I'm breathing heavily after that, and he is too, but less dramatically. We stare at each other in shock – at least, I think it's shock, but I can't tell from him. Eyes never leaving mine, he jammed his finger on the number twelve button. The doors leisurely close, but not before he leans down for a second kiss.

I don't pull away immediately when they shut. Neither does he. And then we separate, but we can't seem to keep our eyes off each other. "You could've just told me I needed to kiss you," I say, trying to sound brave, because that's the best way to be.

"Would you've agreed to?"

"I don't know. Probably." But then again, probably not, because right now, I'm remembering how it felt when there were other lips pressed against mine, warm and sweet. Other lips, on another boy with blonde hair and eyes like the sky. "I still love Peeta," I say without thinking.

"I know," he says simply.

Somehow that answer gives me the strength to nod calmly and walk without faltering out back into the twelfth floor, where Haymitch is waiting at the dinner table, drinking and watching our kiss on television.

"Brilliant," he tells us. "They don't know what to make of you. Both your districts are in an uproar. Well done."

Shit. Caught up in the moment and trying not to cry, I completely forgot the implications. Gale saw that kiss. My mother and Prim did. Everyone at the Hob. In a few hours, they'll surely hate me, if they don't already. I'm going to be a pariah.

Glancing over at Cato, I can tell he's having a similar reaction, granted in a much more silent and manly way. He's going to be widely hated, too.

A more selfish part of me wonders if Haymitch saw this coming, if he might've done this on purpose to get me to this place, with him. Nobody likes him, either, but that's his fault. He probably wanted company when we get back home.

But the rest of me knows that isn't true. He's gruff sometimes, drunk all the time, but he wants what's best for me. He wouldn't be that petty.

"How much of an uproar?" I say out loud.

Haymitch glances at me, and somehow, he knows exactly what I was thinking. "You'll be able to explain it away. Your cousin, though, he might be a little more difficult to convince."

"My cousin?" I frown.

"Dark-haired kid, looks like you. Gale."

He's not my cousin. And him looking like me is a terrible description; most of us from the Seam look alike. Haymitch knows that. "My cousin," I repeat skeptically, feeling Cato's eyes on me.

"Yep," Haymitch nods. "He's a looker, that one. Made for the cameras. His interviews got you more sponsors every time. All those heartfelt stories about your father, his uncle, your schoolyard adventures. Funny, though, he didn't mention the cousin part until later."

He's trying to give me a message; Gale's become my cousin at some point during the games, and no one can know that he's not. It makes sense, I guess. It's a good way to explain his closeness to my family to those in the Capitol, those overfed babies who have never been thrown together with someone out of a need to survive.

"What did he say about my father?" I ask, because I'm really quite curious as to why the hell Gale was talking about things better left off national television.

Cato gives me an especially sharp, worried glance, and I remember that he knows about my father being dead. Haymitch does, too, of course, and he answers with a little more care than he normally takes. "Nothing that mattered. Just lines designed to get you sympathy points. He's a smart kid, I'll give him that."

Impatiently, I walk over to the television, turn it on and find the interview footage from my friends and family. It's not hard; they're still playing them around the clock for those that might've missed them the first time around. I stop the first time I see Gale's face.

"Oh, yeah, she was always great in school. Really smart girl. I'm not at all surprised she made it so far in the games. I wouldn't be surprised if she won the whole thing," he says smiling at the interviewer. My heart thuds unsteadily in my chest, because I've missed that smile. I've missed him. He's got the other piece of my heart in his chest.

"See?" Haymitch says from behind me. "Smart guy."

Gale's still talking. "She's a lot like her father. They've got the same voice when they sing, the same… spunk," he finishes with a wry grin. As always, I know what he's thinking about – one of the countless times I overreacted and yelled at him for something small, until my shouts dissolved into giggles and both of us were laughing.

They're asking him about my father now. "Oh, yeah he was a really great guy, a nice dad. My father and him were close, even though they weren't blood related." Truth. "He loved kids. This would've broken his heart, to see his daughter like this." Also truth, but striking too close to home for me. My father is mine, not the Capitol's. They don't deserve him.

I turn off the television. "He shouldn't have said that," I grumble.

"He's the reason you're still here. Those handcuffs things you got last minute, he got you those with that exact interview. He bought you the time to convince this one." He jerks a thumb at Cato. "Since it was obvious you weren't going to finish the job."

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask defensively.

"Just a thing, sweetheart." He motions me over to the table. "Eat things. Together."

So Cato sits down next to me and we eat. The games haven't changed my favorite foods here; goose liver and puffy rolls. I order them in droves, piling them up on the table and picking away at the stack.

It's bittersweet now, though, because bread reminds me of Peeta. All bread does, and always will. I love them both. Tears start dripping down my face as I chew on the light bread, but I'm not really sad.

I wave away Cato and Haymitch, who both look worried. "I'm fine," I insist, and I am.

"Yeah? Well. Bread so good it makes you cry; that should be someone's slogan," Haymitch snorts, raising his eyebrows.

It could've been Peeta's. "It should be," is all I say.

Beside me, Cato's eating food I'm unfamiliar with; slices of a light purple melon and delicate pink pudding. I suspect that everything he's eating is healthy – I have no reason particularly to suspect that, it's just a feeling. That's what the rich kids can afford to do, be picky about what they eat. I'm sure he's never had dog meat.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go field a lot of phone calls about your relationship," Haymitch says grandly, getting up. "Don't leave this floor. You'll probably have another interview before you leave for home tomorrow. Well, later today." He glances out the window at the dark sky, and I remember it's nighttime. "Don't do anything stupid," he warns me, and leaves.

Funny, I'm not even a little bit tired. Well, it's not so funny, because I did take a four hour nap. But Cato, he should be at least a little sleepy. He didn't sleep at all. "If you need to sleep," I start to say.

"I don't," he cuts me off. "It's okay."

"You don't need to sleep?" I say skeptically.

"No. I'm fine."

"But that's not good for you. You should sleep," I tell him. "Especially since we have so much to do tomorrow. Just a couple of hours, even."

He puts down his fork and looks straight ahead, clenching his jaw. "I'm fine."

"Alright, then do it for…" I almost say for me, but then I don't. That would assume personal obligation. "Do it so we stay safe. You'll be able to concentrate better if you've slept," I say, trying to be persuasive.

It works. "Okay," he says. "Maybe for a couple minutes."

"Hours."

"Whatever." He looks away. "Do you want me to leave? I should probably spend some time in my own room."

"If you want." I'm not going to argue with him, but I guess I was kind of expecting to spend this last night we have left together.

He looks at me. "You could come with me. If you want. I don't know," he mumbles.

"Sure," I agree after a second. "Sure. I will. I mean, do you want me to?"

"I don't care," he says, sitting very still at my side.

"Okay," I decide.

"Okay, you'll come?"

"Yep."

"Oh." He sounds surprised. "Okay. Do you wanna…"

"Sure, let's go now." I stand up. "Just as long as we're back before the interviews in the morning."

So we get in the elevator and he presses the number two button. "If my mentor is here, I'm… I'm really sorry. Don't pay any attention to her," he says.

"Okay. Don't worry about it. I'm sure I can handle anything she throws out," I assure him.

"Yeah… well she's different. Just be careful." He's got nervousness practically rolling off of him in waves, and that worries me.

"Sure." I try to sound confident, but when he offers me his hand, I don't hesitate to take it.

The doors open on an apartment that has the exact same layout as mine. The only difference is the furniture; everything soft is removed. There's hard chairs and benches, shiny ceramic floors, glass tables, and edges, corners everywhere. "Did this come like this?" I ask, trying to be polite.

He knows what I won't say. "No. The mentors changed it, to keep us sharp," he says, with a tight smile.

"Nice guys," I mutter in an undertone.

He leads me through the apartment, which mercifully seems to be empty, into his room. It's where Peeta's was, but it couldn't look more different. The floor is concrete, the walls programmed to prison-cell grey, and instead of a bed there's just a mattress on the floor.

He's waiting for my reaction. Carefully, I make myself stay quiet until I can say something neutral. "You're not gonna go soft in here," I finally say, smiling at him. It's occurring to me that maybe I'm not the only one in this room who's known what it's like to sleep on the ground, catch a few minutes wherever you can. Maybe I misjudged the Careers.

He relaxes, smiles back. "You can change the walls," he says, picking up the remote from a low table and handing it to me. "I don't care."

So I change them, cycling through aquariums and landscapes until I get to a forest that looks like home. Tall trees, rustling in the bushes, birdcalls. It's beautiful, peaceful, and Cato tenses up, looking around. He gives me a deeply suspicious look, and I realize – it looks like the arena.

"Oh, no this is the woods at home, how they look," I explain quickly. "I can change it, sorry, I didn't realize-"

He stops me. "Don't worry about it. I can sleep anywhere." He lies down on the bed, looking around the room instinctually, checking for danger. It almost would look silly, but I know that feeling. I know that paranoia.

Slowly, moving very deliberately, I sit down next to him, leaning against a tree on the wall. I can almost feel the bark against my back, smell the dirt and leaves. I take a deep breath.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" he asks me, rolling over onto his side to look at me.

"No. I don't know which would be worse, dreams or reality. I haven't dreamed yet, and I don't want to." I feel like I said too much from how he looks at me, but it's the truth. I'm not sure how else I should've responded. "Is that the wrong thing to say?" I ask

"No. It's… you're being really honest. Why is that?"

"You are, too," I try to deflect.

"When I was exhausted and on drugs. You do it when you don't have to."

"I've never had much of a filter when I'm emotional, and that's all I've been since we got out," I say, trying to explain.

"You were pretty filtered before the games."

"Because I was around enemies."

The conversation dies out, and I realize that I just said he wasn't my enemy. I don't take it back – it's true, after all. He hasn't been my enemy for days, days that feel like centuries. He's the one person left alive that I've trusted with my life, the one person who's been with me through all of the terrible things that have happened. Haymitch doesn't count – he's practically family by now. But Cato, he's something completely different, something I don't have a name for. I think that might be what he's trying to work out himself.

He looks at me, searching my face for something, and then he pulls himself up on his arms and presses his lips against my shoulder. While I'm still in shock, he lies back down, facing me, curled around me, his eyes shut.

I honestly don't know exactly what to do here, because he's trusting me completely here, voluntarily making himself vulnerable when he doesn't have to. And the kiss was so different than the other two I've had from him. Soft, sweet, and spontaneous. I'm not his enemy anymore, either – I think that's what he's trying to tell me. So I put my hand on his head, smoothing down his blonde hair.

He stiffens right away, looking at me in a moment of terror, and then, just as instantly, he relaxes, twitching his lips up into the ghost of a smile for a second. And then he closes his eyes again, lets me run my fingers through his hair. Then I take my hand away, because this whole thing is feeling really weird.

"Hey," he complains, opening his eyes again. He snags my fingertips under his hand, trapping them against the mattress. I smile at him, and let him hold my hand.

And as we sit there and he sleeps – or pretends to, at least – I get a quiet moment to remember the other boy who wanted to hang onto me while he slept because he was scared he'd lose me. I get to miss Peeta in my own way; quietly, in the woods, alone.

He sleeps for about twenty minutes, and I begin to relax, drifting into a really peaceful place of listening and thinking. And then his hand tightens around mine and he mumbles things that I can't make out. He starts shaking next, trembling like he's terrified.

I don't try to wake him up at first, out of a kind of nervous hesitance. He needs his sleep, right? But it soon becomes clear that he's not going to sleep. This nightmare won't let him – he's not screaming out, like I do when I dream of terrible things, but he's just as scared. He's clenching his teeth so hard, I'm scared he'll break his jaw, and every muscle in his body is tightened. So I take my free hand and shake his shoulder gently.

He wakes up instantly, letting go of my hand to clamp his fingers around my other wrist, stopping me from moving my hand. For a moment, we lock eyes, his panicked, mine surprised. I break the silence. "You okay?"

"Yep," he says immediately. "I'm fine." But his chest is heaving, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his hand is suddenly hot.

"What was that about?"

He just shakes his head, like he can't talk.

"Did somebody die?" That's usually what mine are about.

Again, he shakes his head. "That wouldn't have… that would be okay."

"Then what?" I ask gently. Yes, I kind of want to know what he's really afraid of. It's a good thing to know. But also I want to help him, make him feel better since he's done the same for me so well.

He hesitates. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. Let me help you," I say very quietly.

He frowns, and then relents. "You were there," he says reluctantly.

"What did I do?"

"You were just… yourself," he says with a tiny sad smile, and moves on. "I was back in my district. My trainers and parents were there, too. And they were… they were just telling me how I should've done better."

That can't be it. "What else?" I prompt.

"Nothing. It's over now," he says. "It doesn't matter."

I don't push the issue, and he goes back to sleep. Then, everything repeats; the sitting, relaxing, him freaking out and jerking awake. I don't say anything this time, just squeeze his hand tightly and try to be comforting. I guess it works, because he's out again in minutes.

And then again, the cycle: he sleeps, he dreams, he panics, and he wakes. "You need to talk about this," I say, matter-of-fact. "Or you'll keep getting sleep in twenty-minute increments."

"I'm used to that."

I don't think about how ridiculously terrible that is for him to be used to, and say, "Doesn't mean it's good for you."

After these three times, he's damp and shaky; his shirt is soaked through now, and he doesn't stop shaking even after he's woken up, but he still doesn't want to say a word. He's not going to open up; I can tell it.

"You don't have to look at me," I suggest as a last-ditch effort. Maybe that'll work, that throwback to the last time he talked to me honestly.

It does. Suddenly, he flips over, putting his enormous back to me and letting go of my hand. "It's been the same every time," he says very quietly. "You're there, and my trainers and my mom and dad. I'm in the main training room, back home, and you're all… yelling at me, telling me every single thing I've done wrong. For my whole life."

"Wait, I'm doing that?"

"Yeah, with them, saying things you've got no way of knowing. You all did that. And you're all really big and I'm not. And then…" he stops for a really long time, and I think that maybe he's not going to finish telling me. "And then. You turned into a muttation. Like the bread kid. You attacked me. Tore me apart."

"What about the other people?"

"They all… attacked me, too," he says cagily, and I'd get the feeling that that's not the truth. But what he did tell me is bad enough.

"I attacked you," I repeat. 'And what did I say?"

"You said… well, you only said the truth."

"And what was that?"

"Not important."

But his huge shoulders are shaking harder. "Tell me," I say.

He doesn't.

And I can't be mad at him for that. I know what it's like to have such terrifying dreams that just talking about them seems unbearable, like maybe they'll happen. If I'm going to ask him to, the least I can do is try the same. "I have this one dream," I begin quietly. "It used to happen every night. Now it's every week or something. Or it was, before the games. My father died in an explosion. Mining accident."

I remember that day clearly, the fear, my mother's all-encompassing sorrow. Maybe I would've felt something like more like that about Peeta if I'd known him longer. Then again, maybe I never would've felt like that. Maybe he wasn't the love of my life. I'll never know.

"That was the worst day of my life. But I had to keep it together, for my sister, Prim. For my mother. And I guess everything comes out in those dreams. I'd be calling for him, standing at the top of the mine elevator and watching him go down. And I couldn't stop him. And then it would explode…"

My unconscious mind works up new horrors to end each dream; sometimes I got coated in coal dust, or splattered with blood. Something of his would land at my feet, miraculously intact, like a boot or something, and I'd just know that his foot was in it. It got worse each time, because I wouldn't know what to expect, just that it would be terrible and it would make me wake up in a cold sweat, screaming.

"I'd wake up knowing I could've saved him in the dream, if I'd been a little louder or something. I mean, in real life, no, but I could've stopped myself from watching him from dying every night since. But I wasn't ever… enough. And I if I go to sleep, I know that I'll have the same kind of dream about Peeta. I'll see him getting eaten alive, dying in a bunch of terrible ways. Those are the kinds of dreams I have."

He's kind of stopped shaking now, or at least he's shaking less, and he seems slightly less tense. Listening to other people's problems can do that for a person. He doesn't turn around though, even still, but he does talk after a second.

"You said that I was a monster and you should've killed me, thrown me over the side to the dogs. And you hated me because I didn't save my sister like you did. Alright? That's mostly what you said."

I don't know what to say, and then I think that maybe saying something isn't the right move. I should do something. So I give up on the words and pull on his shoulder to turn him over. It's like moving a really heavy rock – takes a little momentum, but he starts to slowly move after a second. He won't look me in the eyes, doing his best to look pissed, but I can still feel tremors through his shoulder.

But I get him turned over, lean down over him and kiss him on the cheek, lightly, the way he kissed my shoulder. "I don't hate you," I say firmly. "I told you that, and I mean it. I did before, but I don't now. The things in the arena… they don't count. Remember?"

"You saving my life. That counts. It counts big time."

"Fine, then the bad things don't. And I still don't hate you."

"Awesome." He falls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. "That's one."

I'm not going to lie to him and say that he's universally liked, so I don't say anything at all about it. "You think you can sleep now?"

"Worth a shot," he says grimly, and he moves around on the mattress until he's lying on his side, arm outstretched towards me. I take his hand again, putting each of my fingers between each of his.

He does fall asleep again, holding onto me, and I spend a couple minutes just looking at him. He's got a face that's made of angles; cheekbones, eyebrows, chin, nose. Everything is sharp and unfriendly, but somehow, he looks a lot less hostile asleep. Briefly, I wonder if that's true for me, too. But I've never seen myself sleep. Guess I'll never know.

Nothing scares him awake this time. I wait anxiously for a half hour, expecting something to happen, but nothing does. Only then do I relax again, leaning against the wall and closing my eyes for a second.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: Lots of replies today – I got thirty reviews for this chapter, and several new very insightful readers that I'm pumped have joined this group. **

**Tally Jennifer Youngblood: Nope, Cato's definitely being protective :) And you'll see****…**

**Peenis0314: I agree with you that the public's reaction to the relationship is gonna be notable, but I don't think we're actually going to get to see a lot of that, because of the limitations of first-person writing. Maybe in Haymitch's POVs, I could do a piece about that, but the rest of them don't really know that much about it. Actually, the more that I'm thinking about it, that's super-cool and definitely something I'm going to write. Thanks for the idea!**

**LvR93: Go ahead, tell me about all the errors! Actually, what happened is I've had quite a bit of this written in advance and that all was much better proofed. The Cato chapters/what I'm posting now from Katniss is newer and less inspected. Sure, point out every mistake! I'll edit the chapters and fix them. I'll keep my eye out for them now. And I super-appreciate your offer of proof-reading, but right now, I'm going to respectfully decline. My email's being weird and that's a fun fiasco to handle. So how about I let you know in the future if it'll work out? Thanks so much though! And OH. MY. GOSH. Cato's face is perfect. PERFECT I tell you! I can't wait to see the rest, it's truly beautiful. And I'm very sorry - both these costumes are like possibly the worst textures to draw. I am following you :) Yay Tumblr buddies!**

**ILove2Write13: I have a weakness for characters not talking to each other about important moments, I guess because it happens IRL so much, so that moment didn't happen, but it may in the future****…**

**ngochan: I agree with you that Cato isn't good at lying to Katniss, but it's not because he's not able to, it's more like because he doesn't want to. Katniss is always measuring herself against Peeta, and she feels like a bad person in comparison to his actions. I think Cato does kind of the same thing, except that he's almost better than Katniss, in a way, because he sees her "goodness" and wants to change. Hence the not lying. The kiss thing he lied about because he wasn't sure she'd do it otherwise. Poor thing's got low self-esteem. And thus ends the unnecessary rant on my part. **

**MsCassity: GAHHHH STOP THANK YOU. That's EXACTLY what's going on with Haymitch – he finds himself liking Cato, but he doesn't want to/know how to/is scared to because the last boy he let himself like died despite his and Katniss' best efforts, and he can't help but worry that's going to happen again. So yep, you're right. And IKR? The "Cato being gifted at manipulation" thing is totally canon, but nobody ever uses it. He's a Career, I'm sure they trained him to know what people are thinking and decimate them. I'm trying really hard to keep him not squishy, so it's nice to hear that I'm doing well. **

**munroxochika: STOP MAKING ME WANT TO CHANGE MY PLAN. Believe me, I totally want him to go back with them. But that's not the most realistic thing to do right now, and I hate it. But there will be scenes with him and Gale, Prim, and everybody else in 12. I promise. Be patient! (My real name is Anna btw)**

**elea121: Nope, I was talking about the girl by the fire, from District 8 if my memory's working. Katniss went up to her and said to put it out, but the girl said she was cold, so Katniss was like "whatevs but ur gonna die" and hid in a tree. Then the Careers+Peeta killed the girl and walked under her tree and she heard them. Y'know what I'm talking about?**

**Jawsome: Not gonna lie, I got super-excited about the possibility of 9 reviews from you. If you have the time to do them, that'd be amazing. I feel absolutely awful that Peeta had to die, but I tried to do it the best way possible. Totally sucks though. I'm glad I haven't irked you – and yeah, I'm all for a slow relationship development, though I guess I could understand the weird obsession turning into something more. (Wouldn't be surprised if Suzanne put it in there for the fanfiction, troll that she is) I DON'T LIKE GALE EITHER, I mean I like what he was for Katniss before the games, that he was there for her or whatever, but he just cannot change or accept the fact that he doesn't automatically get dibs on her or whatever. So my writing of him may be a bit colored by that. And Haymitch is fun to write. Unreliable narrators always are. And thank you so much, I'm so happy you like this story!**

**Revot20: That's true. Where did I say something different?**

**Thanks to londoneyedgirl, geranium08, ..Attic, TheFaceOfTheRebellion(LIV IT UP), FYInichole, bookworm191, books-n-cookies, Bubbleboo28, Dra9onf7yz, princezzmaya, Bloodredfirefly, Yeddi, ariaadne, RacheRox12, Morpheus357, Shelber, sarah23ilu, Speares, Tirbute-Directioner-Demigod(Nancy the Anon), and LaBellaVita212 for the reviews. Again, I feel like such a bad person for not having the time to individually reply to your ridiculously nice compliments. Just know that I make weird noises and smile like an idiot with each new review I get. (fact)**

**The lovely LvR93 is drawing fanart for this story, as I've mentioned before. Here's the initial sketch of Cato and Katniss during the victory parade, which already looks fantastic: . Check it out and give her some love! **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: 200****th**** review reached! The POV bonus blurbs will be posted shortly after this chapter. Thanks to all of you who've stuck with it this long. Keep telling your friends! That just means getting to the next bonus faster :)**

At least, it's supposed to just be a second, but then it turns into this half-asleep state where I'm sort of aware of what's going on but mostly asleep. There's no telling how long it lasts; time gets kind of elastic and weird. For a second, I almost believe that I'm at home, in the woods, and that the sleeping guy next to me is Gale, dependable and safe.

A small sound wakes me up, something that I can't describe or even consciously remember, but it makes me open my eyes and look around. Instantly, I see her; Cato's sharp-toothed mentor with a look in her eyes that makes me jumpy. She's by the door, so it seems I caught her coming in. "Impressive," she comments. "You're up right away."

"Impressive?" I frown suspiciously.

"Your hearing. It's really quite extraordinary. Reconstructed ear there?"

I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not, so I keep to simple answers. "Yep. Can I help you?" I ask, trying to be polite and hostile at the same time.

She doesn't answer. "And look at _that_ one," she says disgustedly, looking at Cato. She's sneering, and her teeth glint gold. "Sleeping like a baby. Pathetic. You make quite the pair, don't you."

"And why is that?" I narrow my eyes.

"The little girl who kissed her way to victory and the utter failure from district two." She shakes her head pityingly. "He should've died. And you're just a fluke."

"We'll keep that in mind on the Victor's Tour," I snap back, unable to restrain myself any longer. The combination of terrible things she's saying and the nonchalant way she's saying them is infuriating.

That stops her for a second, but just a second. "See you there," she says, saccharine-sweet, and now I'm the one lost for words. "That kiss real?"

"Shouldn't you know? Being his mentor and all."

She shrugs. "I couldn't care less, really. Curiosity knows no bounds, I guess." And then she flashes me a smile, exposing the points of her teeth. "Figures he'd crack under pressure, lose his motivation. He was too good to be true."

"He didn't crack," I say stiffly.

"Yeah? He went against his training, and that's cracked enough. We expect actual victors in two, not charity cases," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"Training? What, are there rules for how to win?" I ask.

She laughs – it sounds metallic. "Watch this." Briskly, she walks over to us, kneels over Cato, and puts her hand over his mouth. He completely changes, stiffening like he's been shocked, eyes flying open. He wrenches his hand out of mine, throws off Enobaria's, and he rolls to his feet, planting his feet in a fighting stance. For a second, he looks like the old Cato, the one who terrified me, and then he realizes where he is.

I watch him take in his surroundings, mentally slap himself, and drop his fists, unclenching them deliberately and holding all his fingers out straight for a second. "Why did you do that?" he asks, his tone tightly controlled.

"See?" Enobaria says to me, ignoring him. "He's completely programmed. You just cracked him for a few hours. Nothing that can't be fixed."

"I'm not programmed," he says fiercely. "C'mon, we're going." He holds his hand out to me. I take it and he pulls me up, wrapping his hand around mine fiercely, possessively.

But his mentor stops us, just by standing there. "I don't think so," she smirks. "Don't you want to spend some more time in bed together?"

"Go to hell," he mutters, and then he walks past her, squeezing my hand so tightly my fingers tingle with numbness. We hurry through that terrible, sterile apartment and into the elevator. Immediately, he jams his finger on the twelve, drops my hand, and crosses his arms. As we rise, he stands in the corner, as far from me as he can.

"What was that all about?" I demand of him.

He won't meet my eyes. "She's trying to scare you."

"It kind of worked. What happened? And why are you being like this?" I ask, motioning at him, how he's pressed against the wall, avoiding me.

"In training, there were some things they… conditioned us to do. That wakeup is one of them," he says miserably. "But they're not all as strong as that. I'm not… I'm not programmed. I can do whatever I want."

"Okay. And why are you staying away from me then?" I frown.

"I don't… I don't know. Just in case."

The doors open, and we walk out into the comfortable softness of my floor, with its couches and plush chairs. "In case of what?"

Haymitch cuts off his answer. "Interview in two hours, kids. Your stylists will be up here soon to get you looking presentable. Caesar Flickerman agreed to a last-minute second interview – unheard of. But you're getting a lot of firsts," he says thoughtfully, looking at us. He has to see how suspicious-looking Cato is, with crossed arms and hunched shoulders, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"Okay. Is Cinna coming up?" I ask, trying to sound normal.

"Yep. He'll be here with your styling teams in a bit. Now, go work through whatever's going on here," he says, pointing at both of us. Of course he didn't miss it.

"Alright," I nod. "Thanks."

"Bedroom," he orders, and we go.

I shut the door behind me so he doesn't get any stupid ideas about running away, and turn to him. He's pacing kind of nervously by the window, clenching his fists again. "In case of what?" I ask for the second time, and I go to sit on my bed. "You haven't hurt me. Why would you suddenly do that?"

He stews silently for a little while. "That wakeup is the first thing they teach us. Like as nine-year-olds, maybe. They don't use it during the last couple years. And still, it's something in me. I didn't… I hadn't thought about that. I guess it just occurred to me."

"So?" I still don't get it.

"So what else is still… programmed into me?" he says, and for a second, he sounds legitimately miserable. "If I didn't remember that, then there's no way to know what else I don't remember. I could have some kind of… self-destruct thing. I don't know."

"Do you think that's actually possible?"

"Maybe. But I'm not sure, that's the thing. So I can't take any chances. You can't, either." He reluctantly glances at me. "We probably shouldn't be alone in a room anymore."

Talk about mood whiplash. In less than ten minutes, he's gone from sleeping by my side to… the only phrase I can think of that sort of fits is that he's breaking up with me, but that's not right. "If you were going to hurt me, don't you think you would've already?" I say, attempting to be logical.

"You're really good at forgetting that I have," he says, laughing bitterly. "A lot."

"I'm talking about now, since you don't want to," I tell him, getting rather annoyed. "Stop making this more difficult than it has to be."

"Stop being so naïve," he shoots back. "Nobody can see you, so you don't have to worry about your image or whatever."

He's suddenly being very cutting, or trying to be, and I don't know why. "That doesn't matter," I say, remaining calm. "I'm not doing this for the cameras. I want to know; if you were some kind of… robot, programmed to kill me, you've had every chance to already. Why haven't you yet?"

He punches the window in an abrupt fit of anger, then regains control of himself. Blood smears across the clean glass – he didn't even make a crack. At this point, I realize how fortunate it was that I didn't attempt an escape, because I would've gone crazy once I figured out it was impossible.

"I don't know," he says desperately. "I don't know, okay?"

"Then why does it matter so much?"

"Because I've destroyed enough people," he finally yells at me. "Alright? Happy now?" He slides down onto the ground and sits there, shaking out his bloody hand in a way that looks painful but only seems to be irritating to him.

I take a minute to think about my answer. "Of course I'm not happy," I say carefully. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Yeah, well, don't," he says glumly. "That's not a good idea."

What am I supposed to say to that? I go for nothing, because I'm not going to convince him of anything before our interview, and I don't want to fight. "Fine. But I don't believe you're going to kill me."

"Well, you believe a lot of things nobody else does," he says, looking at the ground. "That doesn't mean you're right."

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong, either."

He looks annoyed at first, and then he smiles at the ground in a really sad way. "You're so stupid," he says, but for some reason, I don't think it's supposed to actually be an insult. "What are you going to do if I'm right?"

"Die, probably." I shrug, not letting it show how scared I am, because if he _is_ right about his programming, then I'll have to live with constant paranoia, and I was just getting over that. I don't know if I could handle that, even if I somehow convinced myself that it wasn't him doing it, it was his training or whatever. Who knows if I'd even have that chance. I might end up dead first.

My nonchalance seems to do the trick for him, though. He sighs deeply, and tilts his head back so he can stare at the ceiling. "Probably," he says. "It looks like I'm not going to keep that promise."

The promise that he'd never try to kill me again. "Says who?" I say, and even to my ears, I sound a little too desperate to have him disproven.

"I still don't _want_ to," he says stubbornly, glaring at the ground.

"That's an awesome start." Okay, so maybe that was a tad too sarcastic, but I think I'm entitled to a few defense mechanisms, especially in a situation like this.

Again, Cato chuckles, like he does whenever I'm mean to him. "Look," he says, and he actually looks at me. "If I have any control over myself at all, I won't ever kill you. That's what I meant," he says, smiling at me. "Okay?"

"Okay." I can deal with that. He's never going to completely lose control of himself. Even when he did what he was programmed to do, he didn't totally lose control. What situation would that ever happen in? But I don't think too deeply about that, so I don't have time to prove myself wrong. "Does that mean you'll stop being weird now?"

"I guess."

"Done punching walls?" I continue, grinning.

"Nope." He shakes his head. "Never."

"So now you've got two hurt hands," I point out.

"Yep," he says after a second, looking down at his hands. "I guess so. My stylists are going to be completely pissed."

"It'll be fine. They won't notice if I'm holding them." I don't intend that to be any kind of seductive statement, but as soon as it leaves my mouth, I realize that's exactly what it sounds like. "Nope," I say immediately. "No."

He's officially laughing now, looking at me with softness in his eyes. "You're really bad at this," he observes, like it's somehow still a surprise, even thought we've had pretty much this exact conversation multiple times.

"I know!" I say in frustration. "But it's not like you're any kind of public speaking genius."

"This isn't even public, though. This is just talking."

I flop down onto my back on the bed and half-groan, half-sigh. "Shut up."

He does, and I don't move for a while. "Is your hand really okay?" I ask him, still looking up. "Haymitch can do something about it. Or me."

"Oh yeah, I'm fine," he assures me. "Don't worry about it."

"Even though you're bleeding," I say skeptically.

"Yep."

"Whatever you say." I'm not going to force him to get medical attention. He's made it on his own this far in his life. He doesn't need me getting overly worried.

"Are you really going to hold my hand?" he asks after a second.

"Yeah, of course. We made out on camera. Holding hands is the least we can do," I say, kind of joking but mostly not.

"Oh. Yeah."

We continue to not move. "So how was sleeping for more than twenty minutes at a time," I say, to make conversation.

"Weird," he decides. "And I'm never doing it again. Just look what happened when I woke up," he points out, and that actually is kind of a good point.

"I could've handled it," I say defensively. "She didn't bother me."

"Sure. That's why she tried to make us hate each other. Because you two were getting along." He's got an impressive command of sarcasm.

"Maybe she's just a jerk," I suggest.

"That too. What'd she say to you?"

I really was hoping he wouldn't think to ask that. "Not much," I hedge.

He's quiet for a second. "I thought you said you trusted me. Or was that for the cameras."

"I do. But that doesn't mean I tell you everything you ask," I say awkwardly, because I've never had to explain the concept of trust to somebody, and it's weird.

"She said awful things about me, didn't she."

He knows what's up. "Kind of," I say vaguely.

"And what did you do? Whatever it was, it pissed her off," he observes casually.

"Oh. Well, I said she was wrong."

He's quiet. "You did?" he finally asks.

"Yeah. Because she was."

"Really? What did she say?"

I'm very aware that he's kind of manipulating me, asking the question again so maybe I'll answer it without answering. And although I know exactly what he's doing, I answer this time. "Said you're a failure, that you cracked under pressure, I don't know. Bullshit."

Cato doesn't answer for such a long time that I prop up on my elbows to look at him. He's looking down at the ground again, and I can't see his face that well. As if he can feel my eyes on him, he looks up and meets my eyes. "Not bullshit," he says.

"Definitely bullshit," I insist, sitting up more. "Completely."

"No, they… according to everything and everyone I know, I've cracked. I am a failure. But that's okay. I'm not upset about that."

I can't tell if he's lying or not, and I don't know if I mind. "Okay," I say. "If you say so."

There's a pause. "How long do we have to stay in here?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Will he let us leave?"

"Don't know."

"Helpful."

"Shut up." I take a pillow from behind me and throw it at him. He grabs it with one hand, then lets it fall to the ground. He's not smiling, not quite, but he's definitely not angry.

"You throw like a girl."

"I do everything like a girl, because I am one."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Stop."

"Stop making sense?" I roll my eyes, very ready to patronizingly agree, but then Haymitch opens the door.

"Ya done?" he says gruffly.

"Yeah," I nod.

"Good." He looks at Cato and sees the blood on his knuckles. "Did he hit you?" he demands of me.

"No," Cato says instantly.

I shake my head. "The wall."

Haymitch doesn't question it, but he looks at Cato suspiciously. "C'mon," he says. "They're here with your clothes."

I think Cinna's officially taken over Cato's wardrobe, either by choice or because his quit, which is probably more realistic, I realize. But I don't ask, because Cinna's unveiling his newest creations.

He's made me a darling dress that seems to be sparkling with candlelight, delicate and girly. It's old-fashioned, simple, and almost glowing. I love it immediately. And Cato's suit is classic, with a subtle pattern on the dark fabric that resembles granite. After we're styled and made up, he puts us side-by-side in a mirror. We look like a classic couple from a time past, very unassuming, and very much a pair.

"It looks great," I tell Cinna, turning to him and noticing that my skirt seems to ripple like a pale flame in the wind.

"I thought you'd like it," he smiles.

"But why is it so different from my other dresses?" I ask curiously. It's so much more girly than the other ones he's made from me, more light and innocent.

"Because you need to send a different message," Cinna says wisely, fluffing out the skirt a little, adjusting a piece of my hair. Even that's different, less elaborate than anything they've done before. My hair is simple, curly. It must've killed Flavius to do so little.

Haymitch gives me a thumbs up when he sees me. "Perfect," he nods, reluctantly including Cato in the gesture. "You're in love," he tells me sternly. "Do not forget this."

"Alright," I nod, biting my lip. I glance at Cato, right as he nervously glances at me.

"I'm going to be just off-camera. Try not to cry, if at all possible, unless you're talking about Peeta, Rue or your family, understand? And don't worry. Your family will forgive you."

I nod again, and he leads us out into the elevator. "Hands," he prompts us, and we obediently hold hands. His thumb rubs over the back of my hand soothingly, and I draw close to him. The movement feels natural, like shooting my father's bow, or volunteering for Prim. He protects me during these public situations. I can count on him for this.

"Good," Haymitch observes, looking at us, and I blush for some reason. I'm going to be terrible during this interview; it's just a feeling in my chest, but I know it's right.

We walk to the interview, gathering people into an entourage as we go; Cinna, Effie, Octavia, Flavius, Venia, a handful of less-popular interviewers helping for their big break. Everyone but Cinna, Effie, and Haymitch stays outside of the interview room, and that kind of makes me feel better. Also, there's no audience, just a camera crew facing Caesar Flickerman and an empty sofa.

Cato leads me to the couch and sits closest to Caesar. Hopefully, this means he'll be doing all the talking. I sit close to him, but not very close.

Haymitch waves to attract my attention, motions to me to get closer. So I slip off my soft shoes and curl my feet up under me, lean into him. Cato reacts very naturally, letting go of my hand to put his arm around my shoulders. I reach up and interlace my fingers with his.

And that's how we are when the cameras start rolling, with my head tilted winningly. "Hello, ladies and gentlemen!" Caesar says with his trademark smile, beaming into the camera. "With me today, we have our two victors, Miss Katniss Everdeen and Mister Cato Validus. Now, the relationship between the two of you has grown since the last time we spoke. Isn't that right?" he asks rhetorically.

"I guess you could say that," Cato says, looking very happy with himself.

"We've been spending quite a bit of time together since winning. During that time, we've gained a better understanding of each other," I say, surprising myself by talking. "Not many people know what it's like to lose your tribute partner."

Including Caesar, but I can't say that. He nods, looking sympathetic. "And is it safe to assume that that understanding has blossomed into something… more?" Even though there's no audience, he still winks at the camera winningly.

"That's a safe bet," Cato nods, looking at me. Even I can almost believe the tenderness that flashes in his face.

That tenderness gives me the courage to fake it through the next set of questions about us, how he was seen coming in and out of my room at night and in the morning, what we were doing. I let Cato handle those questions, since they mainly concern him, and reserve myself to smiling and looking bashful. Cato's almost as good as Peeta had been, but in a far less sweet way, with more of a tough, invulnerable persona going on.

That's okay. I could use some invulnerability right about now. Between him and Caesar, I barely have to talk at all, which is good, because I'm not sure how convincingly I can say sweet romantic nothings now that I've remembered my family and friends are all watching this. I guess he can sense the change in me, because his hand tightens on mine.

"And how will your separation affect this blossoming relationship?" Caesar's saying brightly, unaware of what's going on right in front of him.

"You know, we're not into labeling, or worrying about the future. We're going to enjoy the present and see how things go," Cato says calmly, and I nod in assent. Inside my head, though, I quietly make a mental note to ask him what our plan actually is.

"Will you be on the same train for the Victor's Tour?" Caesar asks curiously.

Cato doesn't answer, looking to me for that. "Yes," I say without a second thought. I have no idea how I'm going to be able to face the parents of the children I killed, let alone how I'll do it alone. Behind the camera, Haymitch nods – I did the right thing.

For a fraction of a second, I could've sworn Cato looks thrilled, but he smooths his face back into confidence very quickly. "I mean, can you blame us?" he adds. "Look at her."

I shrug my shoulders and smile in a bashful way that is completely real. I'm so confused - what is he doing?

Caesar eats it up, laughing uproariously "Well…" he says, not agreeing and completely agreeing at the same time.

"No, I'm serious," Cato insists. "Look. Show them the dress." He starts to help me up.

I glance at Cinna; he does a little circular finger motion, and I know what he means again. _Spin for me. _So I do. I stand up, slipping my feet back into my shoes and relinquishing my death grip on Cato's hand to twirl slowly. This dress isn't going to catch on fire, but it does glimmer gently.

"Spectacular," Caesar claps delightedly. He looks truly excited. Cato's face is hard to read, as usual, but I think he likes the dress. Why else would he have asked me to spin? There's so much I don't understand about these public image things. I make another note to ask about that.

"Don't you just look splendid," Caesar continues. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with your victors, Katniss Everdeen-" I do a little half-curtsey. "-and Cato Validus!" He stands up and bows, and the interview is over.

"You did great," Haymitch assures me before I can ask.

"Great," I say distractedly, then turn to Cato. I need to ask him these questions before I forget. "Why'd you have me spin? Do we have a plan? Are you okay with sharing a train?" I ask all at once.

He frowns, taken off-guard. "Because your dress was nice. No, we need to make one, I guess. And sure, I don't care. Were you saving those questions?"

I don't answer that. "What do you mean, nice? And when are we going to make this plan? Because we're leaving, like, really soon."

"Yeah, tonight. I know, we need to talk," he nods. "And I mean… nice, it looked good. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't," Haymitch takes over. "Let's go." He herds us out of the interview room. Cinna catches my eye and smiles. Briefly, I feel better. Then I'm back to being worried.

Cato's hand finds mine as we walk to the elevator and I latch onto him. "You didn't," I say to him in an undertone. "I just wasn't expecting it. That's all. You looked good, too."

He lifts one corner of his mouth in a crooked smile. "Thanks. I was worried." Sarcasm again. "We'll plan," he assures me. "As soon as we get back to your room."

"Okay." How does he know what to say to calm me down? He's the one comforting me when I'm upset. When did that happen? But I don't say these questions out loud. He won't be able to answer, and I think it'll just make him get weird again, pull away from me to protect me or something. That can't happen; we don't have much time left together.

Haymitch gives us his input first, the moment the elevator doors shut. "They're gonna rewrite the rules for you," he says to me. "Before the tour, you can expect to visit each others' districts a couple times at least. Play up the romance."

Uncomfortably, Cato and I glance at each other. "Right," I mutter. "Romance."

"Don't," Haymitch tells me firmly. "Now's not the time for getting squeamish all of a sudden. You've got until around noon today, a few hours. I'll be out. You can say your goodbyes or whatever."

"Great," I say unenthusiastically. "How thoughtful of you."

He gives me a look, but doesn't comment on it, which is good because if we're going to argue, then I can tell that I'm going to cry. The elevator doors open, and we get out, but he doesn't. "See you on the train," he says gruffly, and the doors shut again.

"I'm not good at talking on the phone," I say immediately.

"Okay," he says, amused.

"And we don't have electricity all the time, so videos probably won't work."

"Okay."

"Okay," I repeat, looking up at him. "Okay good? Or okay bad?"

He shrugs. "Neither."

I nod, and sort of wander away from him into my room. As adorable as this dress is, I want it off. I don't want to be a girl in love, but I don't know what else to be. So I end up taking off the dress and staring at the closet naked for a minute. Then, I remember that Cato is in the apartment, and I put on the first things I see; a dark blue sweater and those black pants that my closet seems to have realized I like.

Cato's waiting for me outside the door, looking kind of anxious and then relieved when he sees me. He follows me out to the living room and we sit on the couch. "Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "So what are we going to do."

"I don't know. You kind of shot down all my suggestions," he admits. "So this is on you."

"The only other thing I can think of is like, writing letters or something, and that's stupid."

He sucks in his cheeks. "Yeah. And I'm not good at writing."

He offers no other explanation, but I connect a few of the dots myself; it makes sense that they'd only focus on usable skills for the arena. Handwriting never has ranked very high on that list. "Are we just not going to talk, then?" I ask, because that's the only other option I can think of.

"I mean, if that's what you want," he mumbles, looking away from me.

"No, it's not what I _want_," I say quickly. "Stop being so insecure. I'm trying to be practical. Of course I want to talk to you. We've spent almost every minute together for the past two days. I wouldn't spend that much time with someone I don't like. Or even only sort of like. Alright?"

"Okay," he says, looking less mopey.

"I mean it."

"Good. Because I want to talk to you, too," he says very fast.

"Aw. Thanks," I say, smiling nervously. "So…"

"Come visit each other a lot?" he suggests like he expects me to say no. "We get to use the train for free, so that's… something."

"Okay. I'll visit you first," I say impulsively, "Whenever you want."

"Really?" he says, a surprised grin appearing on his face. "That sounds… alright."

"Just alright?" I pretend to be offended.

"No, more than… that'll be great," he corrects himself.

"You sure everybody isn't going to hate me?" I say, trying to play it off as a joke, but I'm seriously worried about that.

"No, they won't hate you," he says, completely sure of it. "They'll hate me. They'll respect you, for actually winning. They won't bother you, at least. It'll be fine." He pauses. "What about your people, aren't they going to hate me?"

That is probably the more realistic concern. "I'll explain everything to them. They'll understand," I say, sounding more confident than I feel. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

"How do you know they'll listen to you?"

I don't really know that for sure, and I don't know what to say.

Luckily, he speaks up again. "Never mind. Of course they'll listen. What was I thinking."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I frown.

He looks at me for a second, expecting me to be joking. "You're kidding. You honestly don't what you do to people?" he says in disbelief.

"What are you talking about?" His comment sounds eerily suspicious to the one Peeta made before the games.

"Nothing," he decides after a second. "Don't worry about it. I believe you."

Whatever. "Okay. When do you want me to come?"

He shrugs. "I don't care. Whenever you want." Frankly, he just seems thrilled that I'm going to visit him, which I don't understand.

"Alright. I'll call you before I leave, okay?"

"Sounds fine."

"Then I think we officially have a plan." I like having a plan. I like knowing that I'll be home by tonight. This day is going pretty well. "So what are we going to do until then?"

He has something in his head, but he doesn't say it. "I don't know."

I consider for a second, and then I say, "Enjoy each others' company?" I'm only half-joking.

"Okay," he laughs, taken by surprise. "Is that actually an option?"

"Sure."

He picks me up off the couch next to him with his hands fitting around my waist securely, and plops me into his lap. He wraps his arms around my stomach tightly, keeps me close, and generally shows more confidence touching me than he has ever before. And I like it.

So I let him put his chin on my shoulder and turn on the TV. Nothing about the games; somehow that would just be wrong for our last hours together for a while. Instead, he turns to some kind of movie about fighting and killing and weapons.

I guess it's funny. But I can't focus on the plot without taking offence to the unrealistic characteristics of the whole movie. "Are you kidding me?" I finally burst out when someone shoots a bullet through the wall and straight into someone's eye. "Absolutely not."

Cato laughs. "What, you telling me you couldn't make that shot?" he teases.

"Nobody could," I snort. "The people who like this crap are stupid."

"Hey. I'm pretty sure this is my mom's favorite movie," he says, sounding offended.

I can't tell if he's being serious or not without looking at him. "Really?"

"I have no idea. The only time she talked to me in the past year is after I got chosen to volunteer. But it doesn't matter, I was kidding."

He has this effect on me a lot, leaving me unsure of how to respond, and this time is no different. His mom didn't talk to him for a year? I mean, my mother did the same thing, but she didn't talk to anybody that year.

Well, actually, I don't know if that's the situation for him, too. I shouldn't make these judgments without knowing a single thing about his life. "Yeah? Why didn't she?" I ask nonchalantly.

I can practically feel him realize he said too much. "I just was… training a lot."

"Really? I thought you trusted me," I say, half-joking but genuinely curious.

That gives him pause again. "She just wasn't convinced I'd win," he finally says. "Said it'd be a waste of time to talk to me when I should be training. Alright?"

"Alright." I'm sorry I asked. I keep accidentally going straight into these super personal questions, and I just don't know when to stop. "Sorry," I say out loud. "I'll stop being all nosy and whatever. Let's enjoy this stupid movie."

"It's fine," he says. "Don't worry about it. We could watch something else."

"Ehhh… when this one's so fun to make fun of?" I say, wrinkling my nose. "Nah."

He exhales half a laugh. "If you say so."

So we watch it, and I mock it and don't notice how hot my back is getting from his chest. I definitely don't notice how I don't mind, or how well we fit together, maybe even better than Peeta and I did. I don't notice any of this, because then I'd run the risk of missing him after I leave for home, and that's not supposed to happen. There's not supposed to be anyone left to miss.

Just my luck.

Although I keep commenting on the idiotic things in the movie, Cato says nothing, but he kind of snorts with laughter whenever he likes the comment I make. I'm not trying to make him laugh, but it's a pretty okay side effect. He doesn't laugh a lot, and I've realized that he has a not terrible laugh. I almost feel like I could stay here with him for forever.

See, I'm used to being the strongest person, the one others go to for help and support, if not _comfort_, exactly. What I'm definitely not used to is counting on someone else.

I guess Gale and I count on each other, as equals, but that's not exactly the same. We're like two halves of one person. Cato, though, he's someone completely different, and he's stronger than me, which is weird. I could almost get used to being weepy and tearful, though, if there's someone like him to hold me.

The instant that thought occurs to me, I shrug it off. I will never be a girl who cries or gets hysterical. That's not who I am. The past couple days are an exception; I lost Peeta. It's not going to be like that anymore, now that it's relatively old news. I'm going to be strong again, for Prim and my mother, for Peeta's family, if they need me. Except for his mother – I know she won't.

"Are you going to tell your family the truth?" he asks out of the blue. "About us, I mean."

"What, that we're not madly in love?"

"Yeah."

Honestly, I haven't given it much thought, besides panicking that they don't know the truth now. So by default, I suppose that means I've been planning on telling them. "Probably. Why?" I ask curiously.

"Just curious."

"Well, what about you? Are you going to tell people in District 2?"

He doesn't even have to think about it. "Nope."

"Really?"

"Yep. It'd get back to the Capitol in less than a day."

"Oh."

We subside into silence, watch a series of random and unnecessary explosions, and then with no warning, the movie is over. "Another?" he asks.

"Hold on." I get up and get some puffy bread. I can still order it with a few words. Might as well enjoy it. Then I go and sit back down, next to him this time. "Alright, go."

He turns on another mindlessly violent thing, with no stakes and no consequences. I wish everything else worked like that. I wish the games did.

I think he understands what I'm thinking without me saying a word; we shouldn't be too close, to make the separation easier. We have less than two hours left together, which sounds like a long time until I start thinking about it, so I don't think about it.

Then Haymitch finally comes in. "Time to go," he says, making his unsteady way to us.

I stand up, stuffing the remainder of my last roll in my mouth. "Do I have to change?" I ask.

"Nope. C'mon. You, too," he points at Cato. "For a good-bye kiss."

Just that phrase makes me uncomfortable, but I do my best not to show it. Cato gets up, too, and gets into the elevator with us. I notice for the first time that he's still in his granite suit. Can't say that I blame him – the copper jacket was supremely comfortable.

Effie is waiting for us at the bottom of the elevator along with Cinna. I hug Cinna enthusiastically. "See you on the tour," I say to him, trying to not be sad.

"Definitely," he says assuredly. "And until then, I have a goodbye gift for you." He hands me a hanger with covering on it. "Open it here."

I pull the cover off and accidentally gasp when I see what's underneath – it's Cato's copper jacket, but altered. He made it me-sized, somehow turning it into a beautiful tailored blazer that looks perfect; tough and hard, but graceful, too. And on one lapel is the mockingjay pin.

"When did you get-" I start to ask.

He puts one finger to his lips with a hint of a smile. "Wear it," he says.

Eagerly, I let him slide the extra-soft sleeves on my arms and adjust the collar so it lies smooth. It fits perfectly, of course, and it seems softer than before, if that's even possible. I may have a new favorite jacket.

"Thank you." I hug him again. "I couldn't have done this without you."

"It was my privilege. See you in a few months." He doesn't walk us to the train, choosing instead to leave now. I guess that'll make it easier – less simultaneous goodbyes – but I still don't like it.

Haymitch gives my new blazer an approving look. "Cinna's got sense," he says approvingly. He and Effie escort us to the train. Cato and I hold hands the whole way, and reporters snap pictures of us in our suit jackets, our intertwined fingers, and our carefully choreographed whispers to each other. Luckily, they can't hear what we're saying.

"You like it?" I whisper.

"Yep. Looks better on you," he says.

"It'd look better over one of those cameras," I mutter rebelliously.

"You can have mine, too, if you want."

"We need a signal to throw them at. Then we can make a break for it."

"Sure," he says, humoring me. "Just lemme know."

But there isn't a signal, and I don't give it to him, because it's time to go home, back to the people I love, the ones I did this for. The part of me that misses them is much bigger than any desire to spend more time with Cato; I can actually feel my heart quickening a bit at the thought of seeing Prim, Gale, the woods, the Hob.

Our little group comes to a stop next to the train that will take me home. "Do it," Haymitch mutters, gesturing at us, and gets on the train with Effie, leaving us alone with cameras and interviewers, asking us questions that we ignore.

"I'll visit you soon," I say, setting my jaw and looking up into his eyes.

"Okay. We should probably kiss now."

"Right."

He leans down and gives me a short kiss on the lips, that's it. Then he envelops me in a tight hug. I feel safe in his arms, as usual, but this time, it's mixed with some impatience. I want this to end this time, because that means I get to go home. I guess he can sense that, because he lets go pretty quickly. "Thanks for saving my life," he says one last time.

"Thank _you_," I say back. "See you soon."

"Yep." He smiles tightly, but something about him looks sad. He takes a step back, looks at me intently, like he's memorizing me, and then turns and walks away. I get on the train quickly, before the press can overwhelm me, and I don't look back.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: We're at 200 reviews, guyz. I know I said this before, but I'M SO EXCITED BECAUSE I never thought I'd get this far. Honestly, I was prepared to write this for myself, because Kato seemed super unpopular to everyone but me. And then I wrote it and found **_**you**_** guys, who are all wonderful and nice and if I continue, I'm going to tear up, so THANK YOU. **

**Most of you guys reviewing have been consistently giving me feedback every chapter since you started reading, and that really means a lot. Seriously, I recognize almost all of your usernames now, and I get excited about your thoughts on this. Thanks for taking so much time out of your days to read, reread, and review. Hopefully, we'll be together for the whole thing. Also, when I finish this, I've been talking about maybe doing my own take on a Clato fic? I'm not sure. It'd stick to canon. We'll see. **

**Details on bonus below.**

**.: Thanks so much! I'm glad you appreciate the pace. (and this goes for all of you readers) In an ideal world, I'd just shove their heads together and scream "KISS, YOU BEATUIFUL PEOPLE" but that's not canon and not as rewarding as this (hopefully) will be. **

**Peenis0314: Wow, really? That's high praise. I think Haymitch used to be really "good", more like how Katniss is, but now he covers it up with alcohol, so I'm glad that's getting through! District 12 is on the way!**

**ngochan: What a long and very gratifying review! Unfortunately, they have to separate now, for the events I want to happen, but I promise there's a reason. YES THAT'S EXACTLY IT, what you said about Cato. He doesn't really have any concept of self-worth outside of the games, so right now, all he's got is her opinion of him. But they're both so bad at words that it's going to take a while for them to come to terms with everything. And yeah, Katniss is clueless about some things. The idea about Brutus and Haymitch fighting almost over Cato****…**** that's interesting. It is filed away under ideas to make happen. Thanks! And yeah, if Gale dyed his hair, it might change a lot :)**

**FYInichole: Yesssssssssss thank you so much! That's wonderful to hear, and tell her hi from me! OMG I love the Cato memes, or when they take pictures of the Careers with the F-U-N song from Spongebob. Yep. THG fandom is awesome. **

**Speares: Thank you! I'd love to check out your story, but I'm going to wait till after I get a few things nailed down here, so I don't accidentally use your ideas or something. Everybody else, though, check out the story "Receding Water". DO IT.**

**..Attic: YES! What's your username? **

**ILove2Write13: Gale and Cato are going to have a showdown. That's a guarantee.**

**Jawsome: Yeah, I mean he's a good character, multidimensional and everything, so it's not like he's just an asshole, but I don't like him at all. I guess because he's so selfish with Katniss, and he jumps on her when she doesn't do what he wants and then he guilts her into stuff. So. (He is going to get all 'Gale' on her, and I love that you put it like that. But first he's going to try being nice****…****. You'll see.) Yes! The hints are there on purpose! Cato is jealous of Gale! Hahaha I'm glad the fangirl in you got so excited, that's always a sign of me doing something right. (baybeez) And Suzanne is such a troll, she'd so do that, except Katniss wouldn't understand what sex eyes are, so she'd just be like "Something in your eye?" lol You have first marriage dibs on this story. Spring is free. Perhaps in May, early June? Colors in mind?**

**BenevolentlyCynical: FORTY. POUNDS. **

**LaBellaVita212: Oh no! I hope you didn't get in trouble or something, but thanks, that's super flattering!**

**LvR93: Hello Louelle! Good to be on a first-name basis. GAH I love the drawing, and I'm super excited! OMG I did include a link but the stupid site deleted it. POOOOOOP well, it looks awesome, though. *more confetti* Don't hurry or anything with the typo-fixing. I'm just thrilled you're doing it at all! And I totally agree about meaningful relationships making everything better, and making me feel lots of things. And totally, kissing isn't the only way for them to be cute and vomit-inducingly adorable. I'm glad you like the way I'm doing it!**

**Elea121: You will see many reactions, I cross my heart. Haymitch has really given up on Katniss listening to him (unless it's a life-or-death situation) so he's not that upset. He wasn't the most obedient child ever, either. About the girl from 8; Katniss didn't necessarily have an emotional connection to her, true, but she didn't like seeing people die. That was the first death she saw besides the bloodbath, which was really all a blur, so it did affect her. **

**MsCassity: GAH THANK YOU. The boys think they're very wiley and protective, but Katniss won't stand for it. That's basically the groups' relationship, and even I think it's adorable. :) And I've totally noticed that about guys, like if they stare off at something manly in the distance, they talk a lot more, so I was hoping this would be realistic. Yeah, Katniss has a thing about trust. It might be the #1 most important thing to her. The Cato onion has only begun to be peeled. (That metaphor fell apart midsentence. Sorry about that) You will find out****…**** I'll probably do a POV for him before they see each other again, so ya'll find out what it's like for him alone in 2. Thank you dear, love you too! And I believe you asked for my name? It's Anna, for all of you who don't know yet. Hi! **

**Jennifer Tally Youngblood, geranium08, lovelifegymnastics, Shelber, scoco, , jaclynheartz, obsedian-dream, Dra9onf7yz, books-n-cookies, Dramione-Fan 17, CreativeWr1ter, your nice reviews that weren't questions were REALLY NICE. Thank you :D**

**Alright, so the bonus is going to be a Haymitch POV, a Gale one that will set the stage for the next chapter, and a Cato one that will make it very clear exactly what he was thinking during that kiss. (I did say that to toy with your feelings, yes.) It'll go up tonight, after I do some tweaking to get them perfect. Rest assured, I have written more based on your ideas, but I'm not posting them ye. They're better suited for a later bonus. Hope you like them!**


	13. BONUS 1

**A/N: Alright, so I caved and gave you two Cato POVs. Enjoy**

**Also, Jawsome, I love you. Seriously, you actually went back and reviewed every chapter and everything you said was funny and perfect. I tried to reply to every one but then I soon gave up because my responses were just turning into "awleijdas;dkfja;iosefj" because you're amazing. Don't feel obliged to replies to my PMs, dear. The wedding sounds lovely – dibs on being best man. Thank you so much! 3 (Also, seriously what's up with Glimmer? I don't like her at all. She's ridiculous. Why'd they add that?) **

**I have the POVs for Haymitch during the games, for Cato during the morphling scene, and for things in the next two chapters. Those'll be the bonuses for the next 200, along with any other great ideas you give me. **

**I'll be answering the questions for the last chapter in the next actual chapter, but just as a quick note, bigtimecrazy123 – yes, I'll be writing at least through the Quarter Quell. If any of you want to recommend any arena types, send them my way, since I won't be using the clock/jungle/island thing from the actual books. I have a few ideas of my own, but I'd be remiss if I didn't check with you darlings. :)**

**Enjoy!**

_Haymitch_

On one hand, it's good that Katniss is getting all cozy with Muscles the Career. She's possibly the worst actress in the world, so in order to sell this love thing, she's gonna need to at least like him a little. But on the other hand, nobody's going to take advantage of her while she's like this, not even if she wants him to. I won't let it happen.

Protective of me? Yeah, maybe, but also just common sense. The Careers are brutal – I know them better than most, understand them, as much as that disgusts me. I used to think she understood them, too, but then she developed that weird weakness for him.

Whatever. I'll never pretend to understand women.

She's not "women", though, and I can't even convince myself of that. She's a girl that's somehow weaseled her way into my good graces, a girl with more natural talent and goodness than anyone else I know. She's smart, manipulative – reminds me of me. So I have to care about this. Damn it.

I know how she works, so I know how smug she'll get if I ever admit it. It's a lot easier to act like a jerk. Being an ass has always come naturally to me, anyways, so I'm just pretty damn lucky that it's so useful.

That's what I was doing with the whole thing where I reminded her what he did to her. Sure, I said it like a jerk, but it's a great way to bring up a very important fact: she's becoming friends with her former sworn enemy. That's not going to make her return home any easier.

It'll help his image throughout all the districts, being the choice of the most desirable girl in the country. But she's done enough to save him – saved his life, for one. She does all this shit for other people, and still managed to win. I guess she learned how to balance compassion and ruthlessness the way I never could. It's impressive, to be sure, but she's by no means perfect. That's why I'm here.

Lucky for him, he seems to be genuine. So I've decided I'm gonna cut him some slack. He can be part of our team for now, for as long as he's good for her. And I'm starting to think that's gonna be a more long-term stint than I initially expected, judging by the way he's looking at her.

It hits me in the middle of talking to the two of them where exactly I've seen that look on his face before, and I have to stop talking. I manage to finish the sentence so she doesn't notice anything. Because if she does notice that I'm caught so off-guard, she'll make me explain, or worse, figure it out for herself. And she can't know what I realized.

She can't know that this blonde boy standing next to her is looking at her the exact same way that the previous one did.

**-xXx-**

_Cato_

I can tell she checks out halfway through the ceremony. Her eyes get kind of glassy, and she doesn't respond when I take her hand in the chariot. I almost think I should do something about it, but Haymitch takes care of her first. He grabs her and leads her away and I follow, since we're going to the same place. I want to try and help her, but the two of them are already in a world of their own. They're wrapped around each other, and they're talking to in low voices.

There's a nervous moment where I'm trying to decide if I should push past them and hit the button for my floor, and then I decide not to bother. I can press it after they get out, and I really shouldn't bother them; I can tell from how they're standing, practically nose-to-nose, staring at each other.

And the things Haymitch is saying. I can't help but eavesdrop. "You saved his life. You tried to save that little girl. You volunteered for your sister, and you sacrificed your won victory to save Peeta. Is that all true?"

She's nodding, but I can't believe what he's saying. All the facts may be true, but the way he's saying it makes it sound like she had no ulterior motive. Like she did all of those things just because it was the right thing to do. Even for her, that's really stupid. That can't all be true. But she's nodding. And Haymitch talks again.

"Of course it is. So you've got to start taking care of yourself now."

Meaning she wasn't before. I can't believe that.

Strangely, though, I do. And it doesn't make me disgusted with her like it would before. It makes me want to take care of her, because it also makes her the only person I know who doesn't look out for themselves above everything else.

I stay in the elevator when they all get out, because I'm not going to be the type of person who follows people places. That'll never be me. Haymitch pushes Katniss towards her room gently, then turns and sees the closing elevator doors. He points at me. "Stop," he commands.

Without thinking, I stick my arm out between the doors. They reopen, and I see Haymitch looking at me with reluctant approval. "What?" I ask him.

"Get in there," he says gruffly, motioning where Katniss went.

"With her?" I say, confused, because I can't quite believe he wants that.

"Yes, with her," he says patiently. "What are you, stupid? Go."

I won't argue with that. I follow her to her bedroom door, and then I stand there. I can't go in, because she's crying on the bed, sitting there dejectedly, completely miserable. I can't interrupt that. But I also can't just watch her be like this, either. I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and open my mouth.

**-xXx-**

That kiss. Oh God, that kiss.

Yes, the whole thing is staged. Yes, I know it's not real in any way, but I enjoy this kiss more than I should. I like everything about it; how she looks a little surprised as I move in towards her, how soft her lips are in the first instant they touch mine, how she closes her eyes and her eyelashes tickle my cheek later.

So yeah. Maybe I get more into it than I should. I know how to kiss – most of the girls in my district thought I was some big deal, so I'd had my fair share of hot make out sessions. But none of them were ever like this.

None of those girls had soft skin the color of those sweet coffee drinks my mom loves. None of them had grey eyes that tell me everything and nothing at the same time, or brown shiny hair, or hard hands that are so gentle right now. None of them ever saved my life.

And maybe I do feel kind of obliged to her for that, but not right now. Now, it's just her and me, kissing in front of the entire nation. I almost don't care about the cameras, though. I can't help myself from getting caught up in my emotions, finally running my fingers through her long hair, brushing her soft cheek with just my fingertips because I'm still scared I'll hurt her.

I didn't know I wanted to do all these things until it was too late, until right now, really, when I'm doing it. Or maybe I did know, but I didn't let myself realize it. I'm not sure which. And more importantly, I'm not sure why I want them.

I've wanted girls before, admired them for their bodies or skills or faces. Anything other than that was discouraged, strongly, and being the robot I'm realizing I was, I obeyed. Girls were mostly just boys that I could make out with when I got stressed. All of them were enemies. I never wanted any of them like this.

I guess that makes sense, considering that she's unlike anybody I've ever known. But that doesn't mean I'm prepared for it. I never expected to feel different the way I do when she touches me. Like maybe I'm not completely worthless anymore, if she can touch me like this, kiss me like this, hold me like this.

I make myself stay a little bit disconnected so I can judge how long we've been kissing. Once I'm sure it's been long enough, I pull away, but I can't take my eyes off of her. She stares at me, her eyes wide and light and beautiful. I do what I have to do – push the number twelve button and try to act embarrassed for the cameras – but then I do something I don't have to. I lean back down and kiss her again.

It's stupid and impulsive, and I completely expect her to push me away or something. It won't matter, since the doors are mostly shut. I did it for myself. I never expected her to lean back into it, like she wants to be close to me.

When we finally separate again, her eyes stay fastened on mine. "You could've just told me I needed to kiss you," she says. And that's when I know I'm lost, and the only place I'll ever find myself again is in those eyes.

But that can't be true. I can't feel like this. Especially not about her. It won't ever work, and it'll just make things complicated and weird between us. I try to imagine for a second what might happen if she isn't okay with me feeling like this – however _this_ is.

She can never find out what just happened in me. I can't ever feel like this again. So I do what I do best – stuff all my emotions somewhere deep and far away inside of me, somewhere I'll never find them again, and try to get back to where I was.

We're co-victors. I trust her. Miraculously, she trusts me. And that's all it'll be. That's all it can be. That's it.

Forever.

**-xXx-**

_Gale_

The first thing I feel when I see her kissing the baker's kid is betrayal, which is ludicrous. It's not like we're dating. We're best friends, hunting partners. That's it.

Except that it's not all I want it to be. Not if I'm being honest with myself. It's a lie to try to claim that's all I want. The moment I first saw her in that huge jacket, nearly starved to death, I knew she'd be the only girl for me.

But then, things didn't go exactly according to plan. While we got to know each other, we accidentally became best friends. At first, I thought this could be a good thing. If we got close, maybe we'd cross into romance without trying. That didn't happen.

So I waited. Five years. And by the end of those five years, I was starting to feel weird. I still loved her, maybe even more than ever, but I wasn't thinking straight. I started to love being just friends with her. She let me have my opinions without judging me for it. And she was accidentally gorgeous.

She did a billion little things, unconscious gestures or expressions that reminded me why I ignored all the other girls at school. And she was only ever like this around me, out in the woods. She was guarded everywhere else. I couldn't lose that.

But here I am losing her on national television. I can't say that part of me isn't morbidly thrilled when he dies, although I hate myself for it. I never would've been able to compete with him. picking up her pieces, though, putting her back together, I can do that.

Then there's that guy from 2. Cato. For some unfathomable reason, she saves his life. Whatever, I tell myself. Just Katniss being herself and bending the rules until they break. She's rebelling. That's all she's doing. She'll still come home mine.

Not before they get caught kissing in an elevator, though. I get so extremely pissed when I see it for the first time that I run into the middle of the woods and punch things. My mom tried to hide it from me, claiming there was no new footage. No close up shots of his big pale hands on her face, in her hair. No video proof that she doesn't pull away, or even look mad about it. No concrete evidence of a second kiss. But moms like to protect their kids, especially if they know it could break their kid's heart.

So yeah. I'm pissed at Katniss. I don't go to the train station to meet her. I don't stop by her house. I've already given her everything I can – good interviews, sponsors, her family's safety. It's time she can learn what it's like to be abandoned.

I can't keep that up for long, though, even with how mad I am. She heads for the woods the next morning and I follow, trailing her to the lake her dad loved. And even though I'm determined to stay mad, I know deep down that won't last long.


	14. Chapter 13

Haymitch is waiting in the dining car with Effie, slamming down shots in quick succession. "Had your goodbyes?" he asks grumpily.

I sit down at the table with him and snag a puffy roll. "Yeah. So how long is it going to be until we're home?"

"About six hours, should be home in time for dinner at your new house," Effie says cheerily.

Right, because by this time, Prim and my mother are going to be set up in our new house in the Victor's Village. "Do you know if we're going to be near you?" I ask Haymitch.

"Next door," he nods, adding in a mumble, "God only knows why you'd want that."

I don't say a thing, taking a large bite of my bread. Effie makes a face at my manners, looking disgusted with me, and I ignore her. Manners aren't going to matter in a few hours. No need to keep them up now.

Even I can't eat for six hours solid, so eventually, I end up in front of the train's television. "What could you possibly still want to see?" Haymitch demands skeptically, looking at the television with deep distrust.

"I don't know," I say cagily, frowning at him. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

I'm definitely not looking for footage of Cato, but I find a lot of it, and a lot of stuff about me, too, which I'm less interested in. You can't get one without the other, though, apparently, so eventually I pick something that's mostly truthful and put up with the rest.

I wouldn't even have to watch this crap if everything from the Capitol wasn't so ridiculously stupid and boring. Effie seems to like it, though, so maybe it's just another thing us citizens in twelve don't understand. I don't want to understand it, though. I'll never think this is even remotely entertaining.

Somehow, though, I manage to watch a few hours of it, curled up on the couch in my new, soft blazer. I guess it can have a somewhat addictive quality. And it's not that terrible to hear a bunch of people telling everyone how awesome I am, if we're going to be completely honest here.

After a few hours, Haymitch ends up stretched out on the couch next to me, reluctantly watching with me. "This is bullshit," he observes.

"Hey. I'm offended." I'm not offended.

"Don't be an idiot," he says loudly to the me on the screen. "What do you think you're doing there? Stupid."

At that moment, I'm cutting the branch with the tracker jacker nest on it, sawing through it faster because they're starting to get irritated. "How is that stupid? It got the Careers away from me," I say defensively.

"Yeah, but at what cost? You didn't think that through. Peeta was there, too," he points out.

"But at that point, Peeta was on their side. I didn't know-"

He stops me with a look. "Are you kidding me? Everyone with a brain could tell that he was doing that for you. You honestly expect me to believe that you somehow missed his obvious affection for you?"

I don't answer that; I'll just sound like more of an idiot, because I didn't notice, not even a little bit, not until it was way too late.

He leaves me alone after that, thankfully. We pass through the other districts into our home district, and finally, the landscape shooting by at high speeds look more familiar. I'm excited about this, but it just seems to depress Haymitch. I don't care about that, though, because I'm at the window and stare out at the woods.

Then the train's in the station, and I'm running for the train door, tripping over ornate furniture to get to it. And then, I'm at the door, wrenching it open to the dusky light. The district's train station is more beautiful than I've ever thought it to be before, and even better, my family is waiting there for me.

I run straight into my mother's arms first; no matter what happened after my dad died, she's still my mom, and I thought I'd never see her again. When I pull away, she's crying, and my eyes aren't dry either. And then Prim's latched herself onto me, weeping hysterically and holding me so tightly, I'm scared her skinny arms will break. Both of them are wearing new dresses, and they look healthier than I've seen in a long time.

"I knew you could do it," Prim says, breathless with happiness, and I don't have any answer to that, because I'm suddenly way too happy to talk. I just cradle her face in my hands and pull her close again.

"How's the new house?" I ask my mother, still holding Prim.

"Beautiful," she says, her face lightening in a way that I've never seen from my mother before. "Just wait until you see it – you'll love it. You have your own room; I decorated it for you. I hope that's okay."

I couldn't care less about the interior design of my room – I've had enough luxury for a lifetime – but I smile and nod, because she deserves to finally enjoy herself. "Where's Gale?" I ask. He's conspicuously absent, and after my family, he's who I've missed most.

Prim's face falls and my mother's goes hard. "He's busy right now," is all she says. "But he wants to see you, too, as soon as he can. Come on, see your house."

I know she's changing the subject, but I let her, ignoring the heavy feeling in my gut that says Gale hates me now. I turn to look for Haymitch – he's standing a few feet away, watching my reunion with a grumpy scowl. He doesn't have anyone waiting for him to come home, I realize, which makes me suddenly pity him. "Are the things I bought going to be brought to my house, or…" I start to ask.

"Yep," he says before I finish my question. "Don't worry about it. Go."

I don't have to be told twice. Prim takes me by the hand and leads me to the Victor's Village. I'm unfamiliar with the route, but she and my mother don't hesitate. It suddenly occurs to me how much things here at home might've changed in the past few weeks without me realizing it.

They lead me to one house. My mother opens the door and ushers me in proudly. And I officially feel really misplaced. The house is beautiful, of course, clean and tastefully decorated by my mother, but it's not home. Not for me, anyways. Prim dashes around excitedly, showing me things sent to her by people from the Capitol who fell in love with her, as everyone inevitably does.

When she gets around to showing me my room, I do my best to be excited. But the room isn't very impressive compared to the one I had in the Capitol, and also I just don't really care. That type of stuff has never been too important to me.

By the time they finish showing me all the amenities in this new house, it's completely dark outside. Peacekeepers make a constant stream into the kitchen, depositing my crates of purchases on any available surfaces. My mother goes straight into efficient-mode, dividing things up into neat stacks; things for us, things for friends, and things to trade.

"Do you want my help?" I ask, feeling slightly guilty as I watch her work.

"No," she waves me away. "Go, get outside. I know you've missed the woods." The look she gives me makes it very clear that she knows it's not the woods I've missed.

I admit nothing, but I don't argue with her, either. As fast as I can without being rude, I escape to the crisp night air.

I don't go looking for Gale. If he wanted to see me, he would've been at the train station. It's clear he doesn't like me anymore, and I know why; Cato. He saw me kiss him, act all lovey-dovey with him in the interview, and now he's disgusted. I guess I would be, too, if our positions were switched and I saw him kissing a Career girl. Still doesn't make me feel any better right now, though.

Without that to do, I kind of wander into town, hunching my shoulders in my shiny blazer. Once I'm away from my house, I realize I really stick out here, that I should probably change my jacket. So I backtrack and slip in through a window so they don't realize I'm back. In the kitchen, I can hear them talking excitedly about the things I brought back, which makes me smile. I really do love them.

I shrug off Cato's altered jacket and pull on my father's, which someone put on the back of a chair in my room – Prim, I'm pretty sure. It's the first thing that smells like home since I got here, and I sneak back out with renewed energy.

I'm not quite brave enough to hit up the Hob, or any of the houses around the Seam. Not yet. And I kind of just want to walk, really, so I wander towards the town, enjoying the fact that I'm in my natural environment, back where I belong.

The houses in town have electricity most of the time, so their windows glimmer with light in a beautiful way. I saunter slowly down the alley behind the buildings; I still don't feel comfortable in front of them. That's never been where I belong.

At least this time, I don't have to dig in dumpsters for food.

The moment I think that, I realize exactly where I am; behind the bakery, near the tree where he threw me bread, so many years ago, the first time he saved my life. I have to stop and lean against the tree, right where I'd been back then, but not because I'm hungry, because I think I might cry.

I do, just seconds later. Hard, intense sobs that shake my whole body and make me curl up in on myself just so I don't shake apart. I hate being here. I hate it. But I love it, because it reminds me of him; same reason I hate it. He was so good, so wholesome and kind and hopeful. And now he's gone.

Someone appears in a window above the bakery, a blonde shock of hair that looks exactly like Peeta's for a second. It's gone before I can see who it actually is, but I'm pretty sure it's one of his brothers. I don't bother to stop crying – I'm being quiet, and I'm pretty sure that whoever it was in the window isn't going to come out and check on me.

As usual, I am wrong.

The window slides open quietly and one of the brothers hauls himself out. I wipe away most of my tears with a sleeve and watch him carefully descend to ground level, hand-over-hand down the gutter. He's strong. Like his brother.

That makes me cry really hard again, even though I know he's walking towards me. "Hi," I whisper, digging the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and then making myself look up at him, firmly instructing myself not to cry more.

But he's got exactly Peeta's hair color, exactly his eye color. It's really hard not to run away. His face though, his face is different; bigger nose, harder jaw. That's different. So I focus on that.

"Look, I'm really sorry about your brother," I whisper really quietly, holding my voice steady.

He shakes his head. "Not here," he says in a voice barely above a breath. He leads me away from his house, towards the back of the butcher's. Smart move – I know she won't care that we're back here, and she's got a small lantern by her back door that we can see each other's faces by. When we get there, I finally determine which brother he is; the one who's only a year older than Peeta. Ryan, I think his name is.

"I'm so sorry," I say again, tears already streaking down my face and dripping off my chin. "I could've done it, I could've gotten him out with me."

He shakes his head slightly. "It's fine. I'm not mad at you. You did your best, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, gritting my teeth and doing my absolute best to stop the tears, because he looks pretty uncomfortable. Then again, he may just be cold – it's pretty chilly out, and he's just wearing pants and a thin T-shirt. "Here," I say, taking off my dad's jacket and giving it to him. "Really, take it," I insist.

"Won't you be cold?" he frowns. Considerate like his brother, too.

"Nah, it's fine." I kind of like being cold, after so much decadent comfort.

Reluctantly, he puts it on – it fits him better than it does me, which makes sense. He's closer to my dad's size. And he looks less uncomfortable already. "Thanks."

"So why'd you come out?" I whisper.

"I saw you. And I wanted to know… did you really like him?" he finally gets out, sounding almost embarrassed to ask. "Or was it part of the game." I don't answer at first, and he adds, "I don't care either way. I just need to know."

"I did," I nod, wiping off my face. "I really liked him, I promise."

"But what about that other guy? I mean, that's none of my business…" He hunches his shoulders and kind of glances away, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other.

"No, it is, it's fine." If it's anyone's business, it'd be his. "Cato's nice, he's fine. But no, I don't like him the same way. Peeta was different. I wish I'd figured out how to say that sooner."

"Okay." I watch him debate with himself whether or not to say something, and then he says it. "Because he really liked you. He told me he loved you," he says all in a rush, like that's a big important statement, and it is.

"He did?" I force out, clenching my jaw.

"A bunch of times. Whenever… whenever he'd had a bad day or something, he'd talk about you." He exhales half a laugh. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but I guess that doesn't matter." I can't even nod, or I'll fall apart. "But that's what he did. And when you found him and said you'd take care of him, that was the happiest I've seen him."

"Why are you telling me this?" I say plaintively, because now I just feel more miserably guilty that I didn't figure out my feelings for him sooner. I didn't know we had so little time.

"Because I thought you should know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." He doesn't have quite the charm that Peeta did, but he's got the same sincerity.

"It's fine. I want to know," I assure him, but I'm still crying. "How's your family taking it?" Maybe with a subject change, I'll be able to keep control of myself.

Bad question to ask, though. It makes him hunch his shoulders more and take a step back from me, eyes suddenly darting everywhere. "Fine."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

It's not the truth; he and I both know it, and after a silence where I try not to be suspicious and fail completely, he says, "Okay. Listen. You can't say this to anyone. Especially in an interview or something."

I nod seriously, and he steps closer again.

"My dad's taking it really hard," he says softly. "He isn't staying in bed all day or anything, he still goes and bakes every day, but… he hasn't smiled since he died," he finally says.

That is a problem. I remember Mr. Mellark and his promise to keep Prim fed. I know where Peeta got his kindness and easy grin, and I can't imagine him without it.

"It doesn't exactly seem real," Ryan continues. "I don't think it's sunk in yet," he confesses, hands deep in the jacket pockets.

I remember that feeling. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

"Yeah." He kinda shrugs.

We stand there in silence for a moment, and then I realize he left someone out. "And what about your mother?"

He tenses up and I know that I asked the wrong thing. "She's fine."

I force my lips into a smile, ready to agree with that and not ask anything else.

"Why are you asking about her?" he asks, frowning at me.

I kind of shake my head, stalling. "Uh… well, you didn't mention her." Then I decide to be completely honest with him – he deserves nothing less. "And I know that she's not the… the best parent ever all the time."

He looks at me, his face hard in a way Peeta's never was, and I can't tell a thing from it. "Well, yeah. That's one way to put it," he finally says. "She's glad you won, I guess."

"Oh." She told Peeta she thought I would. Figures that would be the first thing on her mind.

"And she said he was slowing you down," he finally forces himself to say. "That you should've left him and won faster. That's it, alright?" He hunches his shoulders and looks at the ground.

"No, he should've won. He was the best… just the best. I'm sorry." It feels good to apologize for living to someone, because I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't be here.

"Don't be," he says, shaking his head. "That's how things happened, it's… well, we just have to deal with it, I guess." He pauses. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I just had to know if you were for real."

"No, that's… that's fine." I'm trying to figure out something else to say to him, this boy who looks so much like Peeta but isn't. I've almost decided to just open my mouth and start talking and go with whatever comes out, but then a sudden light from behind me floods his face, throwing his features into sharp relief, and I notice several things at once.

First, he's got a really brilliantly-colored black eye – dark bruises that had been hiding in the shadows until now, and a cut under his eyes that is scabbed with dark blood.

Second, he's really scared; the type of scared I immediately recognize from the arena. Immediate, complete, and momentarily paralyzing.

And third, someone's yelling his name, loudly.

He looks behind me and I quickly turn to see who's yelling. The light is coming from the now open back door of the bakery, and his mother is leaning out, shouting at him. He pulls off my jacket and almost throws it at me. "Talk to you later," he mutters as he brushes past me, back to his house.

"Wait," I say without thinking, following him towards her, then stopping short when he stands still a few feet from her. "Hi, Mrs. Mellark," I say politely.

I'm not sure how she'll react to me. Now that I'm a victor, I'm pretty sure she's not going to throw things at me and scream at me to get away, but I still don't know what she'll do. Cowardice isn't an option, though, so I don't hide behind Ryan like I really want to. I stand on my own, holding the jacket in my crossed arms against my chest.

She looks at me, her face in shadow and hard to read. "Congratulations, Katniss," she says at last, sounding happy, which makes me slightly nervous. "You did wonderfully in the games. Brought honor to our district."

I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not, so I decide to be nice back. "Thank you. So did your son." Okay, not completely nice. I can't help that one remark.

Ryan glances at me like I'm an idiot, which doesn't make me feel any better. But I'm not sorry for it, even though Mrs. Mellark looks pissed. "Thank you, but don't discredit your victory. You did that on your own," she says, saccharine sweet.

"I didn't though, I needed him," I say, trying not to be too forceful. But I have to defend him here, because I didn't do a good enough job in the arena.

She laughs, and it sounds harsh, grating. "You don't have to lie to me to protect my feelings," she says, leaning on the doorframe. "I'm okay. I know my son."

If that's what she says about him – especially after he died – then clearly, she didn't. I don't know if I'm sad or angry about that, but I am completely sure that I still love him. I want to defend him, him and his brother next to me. I never imagined that I'd be able to protect two boys who can toss around hundreds of pounds, but now that it's happening, I can't say that I don't like it. What can I say – it's nice to be able to do something useful.

So I say fiercely, "So did I. And I really did like him."

She kind of rolls her eyes at that, and I try not to be disgusted. "Alright. Ryan, get inside. You have work to do, more than usual." She sounds annoyed, and then I realize that they have more work because he's dead.

Ryan ducks his head down and walk past me, towards the door, but I put my arm out and stop him. "Can that wait?" I ask, trying to be polite but simultaneously tough. I don't know how to be both. Peeta would've, but I don't. "Just for a second."

I guess my accomplishments do a little of the talking for me. She throws a glare at him, then reluctantly agrees. "A minute," she says threateningly to him and goes back inside.

"What?" he says, sounding annoyed, but something in his voice is off, and he isn't looking at me, his big arms crossed.

"I was for real with Peeta. I really was. If I could trade places with him right now, I would. I just… I wanted you to know that. I had to tell somebody who'd get it," I say, trying to explain it, because I want him to stop looking at me like I'm obnoxious and the worst person he's ever met.

"Okay," he says shortly.

"And I'm sorry I didn't know you before this. Any of you. You all seem… really nice."

He laughs a little. "Yeah, some of us."

"Well." I smile. "Yeah. So we could be…" Nope. I'm not going to suggest that we be friends, because it sounds so guilt-driven and stupid. So I start over. "My mother's a healer. So if you ever want to…" I'm not sure where I'm going with that, so I stop that sentence, too.

He nods, then kind of awkwardly reaches out and pats my back. "Okay. Thanks." Inside, the sound of his mother yelling at his remaining brother filters through the cracks around the door, and I see him tense up again, though to a lesser degree.

"Is your eye okay?" I ask impulsively.

"Yep. It's fine," he answers too quickly. Then, he takes a couple steps toward me and puts his arm around me in an uncomfortable half-hug, which then turns into a real hug when I drop my dad's jacket and tentatively hug back.

He smells like Peeta did, like flour and sugar and bread, but also different, like pine, maybe. Everything about him is like that – mostly the same, with a couple differences that make it impossible for me to mistake him for the boy I was starting to love. And now he's holding me like Peeta used to, but differently. Same strong arms, same firmness, but less intimate. More like a friend than a lover, which makes total sense.

He holds me close for a second then pulls away, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking at me seriously. I can see just the shadow of his black eye on the darker side of his face. "Thank you. You're a great girl. Not to be weird or whatever, but I kinda get why he liked you," he says with an embarrassed smile.

"Thanks," I say sincerely. He's a nice guy. I just wish we didn't have to through all of this to discover each other. He's got the same steadiness as his father, the same sense that I can count on him, kind of like Gale, too, now that I think of it. "Good luck. With everything," I say, with a significant look at the bakery.

"Yeah," he raises his eyebrows and sighs. "I might have to take you up on your offer," he mutters, and then gives me this look like he's checking to see if I meant it.

"Okay," I nod. "I'll leave the back door unlocked. Just in case." I bend down to pick up the jacket and straighten up again, slipping my arms back into the sleeves. I turn to leave – I'm sure his minute with me is up – but he stops me.

"What about that Career?" he asks curiously. "The one you won with."

"What about him?" I say, putting my hands in my pockets, trying hard not to be defensive.

"Do you like him? Have you… moved on?" he shrugs.

Immediately, I shake my head. "No. No, not even a little. We had to do that. Snow – President Snow, he thought I wanted to start some kind or rebellion. I had to pretend I was in love or he'd try to kill me. None of that was real."

"But you like him, right? I mean, you saved him."

Why does everyone keep saying that? He just as easily could've killed me. But I don't correct him. "Yeah, he was a pretty nice guy after we got out. He helped me deal with everything. It's weird, and I know I shouldn't but I do," I say honestly.

He frowns at me, then shrugs again. "Whatever. I wasn't there, can't say you're wrong. Good job," he says, kind of waving at me and turning away. "Y'know, with the winning."

"Thanks." But accepting his thanks is kind of bittersweet. It almost feels like he's thanking me for killing Peeta, even though I know that's not true.

On the walk back, I make the decision to visit the bakery more. It'll do me some good to see Peeta's family, maybe actually buy some of the bread he threw to me that day in the rain. And I have to thank Mr. Mellark, for taking care of Prim, giving me those cookies, sacrificing his son.

But that can all wait. I'm actually really tired – I've been running on a few hours of sleep for several days, and now that I'm home and comfortable, I can actual register that I'm exhausted.

I walk in through the front door, making a big show of being loud for my mother, who's in the kitchen, unpacking the things I bought for us and putting them away. "Hey mom," I say cheerfully, casually unlocking the back door and pushing on it to make sure it's open.

"This is all wonderful, honey," she says, pulling out loaves of bread from District 11 and stacking them on the table. "Good thinking."

"Thanks. How were things while I was gone?" I ask, watching her. It's strange to see her moving, being useful, not crippled by depression. She's so much happier now – another part of winning to feel conflicted about.

"We did alright. Gale brought us game every few days, and we found bread on our doorstep every week or so. He wouldn't admit to it, but I'm positive, it was that baker, Mr. Mellark," she says wisely, putting things in a cabinet. "He's very kind."

I remember what Peeta said, about his father falling in love with my mother as children, and the only smile I can muster in return is forced. "That's great," I say. "I'll be sure to thank him. It's good to see you again," I say, standing to go.

"It really is," she says sincerely, and looks at me with an expression I can't name. It occurs to me that maybe she was worried about me during the games, maybe she didn't shut down again. I mean, that's what she promised me, but I guess deep down, I didn't believe she could change. I didn't want to hope she had. But she has; I can see that now.

So before I go upstairs, I go to her and give her a kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight," I say quickly, before she can react in any way and then I leave.

I haven't forgiven her – I never will – but I respect her a little more now. As I walk up to my new bedroom, I consider; I may have come back to a different life than the one I left, and that might be a good thing. It's certainly nice to see Prim asleep in a soft bed, healthy, well-fed, and warm, nice to go into my own room and shut the door.

The room isn't particularly ornate, but it's permanently mine, and it's enough. There's a bed, slightly bigger than normal, a closet, filled with the few pieces of clothing I had, a chair by the bed, and window, a real window that I can open to the woods outside and immediately do.

My clothes from the Capitol are still clean, mostly, and exceedingly comfortable, so I leave them on and slip in the bed. The sheets are crisp, and they smell like lavender – my mother's doing, I'm sure. Here, in this bed, this house, with my family safe and sound near me, everything that happened in the past few weeks – the training, the games, Cato – almost seems like a bad dream. I'm home now. This is where I want to be. The only question is whether or not I'm wanted.

My major remaining complaint is Gale. I need to see him. I need him to stop being mad. But that can wait until the morning. Now, I curl deep into the blankets and sleep.

I jerk awake barely before dawn, screaming for Peeta and reaching out for his hand. Prim and my mother both run into the room, smoothing down my hair and assuring me I'm safe. They don't understand that I'm not scared for me.

But I don't tell them that. I push their hands away and wave off their concerned looks. "I'm fine," I tell them repeatedly until they give up and leave. And that's true, I'm okay, but he isn't. With that firmly in mind, I can't fall back asleep. Not tonight. So I drag the chair over by the window and watch the sun rise over the trees.

When I hear them wake up for the morning, moving quietly about the house, I rouse myself from the chair and change into my own clothes, strong pants and a warm shirt to guard against the last dregs of spring chill still lingering in the air. My boots are just as sturdy as before, my father's jacket just as heavy on my shoulders. It's relieving to know a few things have remained the same.

I stop by the kitchen before I leave, where Prim and my mother are. "I'm leaving," I say. On the table is half of a loaf of bread from 11 and a knife. I saw off a large piece and begin to devour it.

"Have a nice day," Prim says cheerfully, looking positively rosy in a new pink dress.

"You, too," I pat her head, and back out of the room. As happy as I am to be here with them, it still feels strange. They've grown up without me here, and I don't know how to be here with them anymore.

I think some of that is obvious, to my mother at least, because she doesn't argue with my spending the first day home alone in the woods. She just nods and continues packing bundles to give to our friends.

So I go. It so familiar, slipping through the fence and into the woods. My father's bow is right where I left it, safe inside a tree, whole and unharmed. Experimentally, I twang the bowstring, take a test shot at a nearby tree trunk to make sure my aim isn't off after all that time with the Capitol's fancy bows.

I'm not gonna lie – part of the reason I came here today is to find Gale. He's in these woods more often than he's anywhere else - besides the mines, maybe. He's nowhere in sight, but I know that doesn't mean anything. Gale can walk as silently as a cat when he wants to; he's probably watching me now, sulking from behind a tree somewhere. That's fine – his choice. But that doesn't mean I have to make stalking me easy.

I decide to visit the lake my father loved. Maybe I'll find some answers there. Plus, as added bonuses, it's quite far, and you can barely take a step without tripping over game of some sort. Gale probably won't realize I'm trying to annoy him until we're halfway there.

Walking through the trees is comforting, in a way, but not entirely, because the arena looked like this. I half-expect to see Rue floating above me through the trees, or Peeta, blended into the foliage. Or Cato, though I can't decide if I'm imagining him as a friend or enemy. And then there's the brief moments of panic where I catch myself thinking just for a second that a muttation is running for me, or some other enemy that's bent on killing me.

I try to hide those reactions, on the more-than-likely chance that Gale's watching me, but I doubt that I'm convincing. It's hard to play off pulling a knife out of my boot and whirling around in an extremely paranoid way. Annoyed at myself, I glare at the trees, stick the knife back in its holster, and continue walking.

When I reach a clearing by the lakeside, I stop and stand there, waiting for Gale. Now that I'm not moving anymore, the forest comes more alive; mockingjays call snippets of songs through the leaves to each other. After a second, I whistle Rue's four-note tune, the notes that meant she was okay. The ones that will always remind me that she's not okay, and she never will be.

The mockingjays quiet down for a second, listening, and they repeat the tune, thin voices layering over each other, just like they did in the woods with Rue. I'm in the middle of deciding whether or not to let myself cry about that when the hairs on the back of my neck prick. "Are you done pouting?" I ask without turning around.

"Excuse me?" He sounds offended, angry in a way I've never heard from him before. "I'm not the one making out with half of this year's tributes."

That hurts more than I ever though possible. Now I'm not turning so he won't see the tears pricking in my eyes. "So you'd prefer if I'd died? Great, I'll keep that in mind."

He doesn't answer for a second. "Maybe I could understand the baker's boy," he finally concedes. "I always thought he looked at you a lot. But that Career? You've better have a pretty damn good explanation."

I bite my lip hard, force myself to sound mad. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" he demands. "I know that you saved his life for no reason. I know that you kissed a guy that tried to kill you – almost did kill you, actually. Are you insane?"

"No. You weren't there. You wouldn't understand… things were different," I say. The explanation sounds hollow, even to my ears.

"Different? What, he magically wasn't a psychotic killer?" he scoffs.

I hate myself for not being able to explain better. "Kind of," I say. "But I had to kiss him, or Snow would…" It occurs to me that I never learned exactly why it was necessary to kiss Cato at that particular moment. "Snow thought I was going to start a rebellion, so I had to pretend I was falling in love," I say, recovering quickly. "I didn't have a choice."

"But you did," he says, sounding very patronizing. "You could've killed him."

"Good to know. You'd rather I kill somebody than be a human being. I'll keep that in mind," I say irritably, crossing my arms. I don't have to see him to know how that makes him frown and shift uncomfortably. "Don't be such a know-it-all, Gale," I continue while I've got momentum. "Y'know, it'd be nice if when I got home after winning the Hunger Games you at least _acted_ happy I came back."

"I _am_ happy…" he started to argue.

"Yeah, well then act like it, Gale. You know me. You know I'm not like that." I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince of that. I just hope it works.

He's silent for a moment. "Okay, I'm… I'm sorry. You're right. You wouldn't do that."

"No, I wouldn't."

"Katniss, look at me," he sighs.

"You get to pout and I don't? Yeah, that's fair," I snort. Snorting is good. You can't cry while you're snorting.

"Katniss," he repeats. "I'm sorry."

I can't hold out any longer – I look over my shoulder at him, just a glance. "You'd better be," I say fiercely.

"I am. Just… don't ever leave me like that again."

That's it – I turn around abruptly and run straight to him. His arms are already out for me, and he hugs me tightly, without hesitation. I remember how it felt to hug him before I left. He hasn't changed – he's just as lean and strong as he was before – but I have. I used to be terrified but determined. Now, I'm not scared, but I'm not as confident as I was, either. I don't know what I am.

"Let's start over," he whispers.

I want to answer, but can't for a moment. "Hi," I finally choke out into his shoulder, still unwilling to let go of him.

"Hey, Catnip," he says back, and his voice is so familiar. It belongs here, with me.

Neither of us can manage words for a while after that, and I don't even loosen my grip. Finally, I let myself breathe enough to say, "Thank you." I don't need to say anything else; he knows what I mean. For taking care of my family, for holding me now. For everything.

"Of course." He squeezes me tighter. "I'm sorry. I was ready to lose you to death. I wasn't ready to watch you fall in love with the enemy."

I immediately want to argue with him calling Cato the enemy, but then a more pressing concern makes itself known. "Why would you care who I fall in love with?" I ask curiously, pulling back slightly to look at him.

"It's not the love part," he says defensively. "You'd be betraying all of us by being his friend. That's what I care about." He pulls me back in. "You were just acting for that too, right?" he asks, clearly expecting quick assent from me.

I can't instantly agree with that, though, because yes, the romance was staged, but the friendliness wasn't. I liked him, and I'm nearly positive he liked me.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he sighs. He lets go of me and sits down in the soft grass at my feet. I join him, wrapping my arms around my knees, and for a second, it's just like old times. "You actually like him?" he asks, being very careful not to overreact again.

The answer isn't simple. We sit there for hours, and I tell him everything. He listens patiently while I tell him about Haymitch's initial reluctance to train us, Peeta's suspicious kindness, our decadent apartment, the beautification process. Hearing me talk about my stylist team makes him frown in amused confusion, and then he nods knowledgably when I start to describe my fire suit and dress.

"I know. I saw it. I watched every minute, just like you told me to," he says.

I feel somewhat mollified. "Oh," I say after a second, and continue. I tell him about the interviews, how Caesar Flickerman actually tries to help the tributes shine, and how completely I was caught off-guard by Peeta's on-air confession. And then, then the rooftop with Peeta, talking to him, being suspicious of his kindness, training with him, what actually happened during my evaluation with the Gamemakers.

I skip talking about the beginning of the games, the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. He saw more of it than I did, I'm sure, and neither of us wants to relieve that. Actually, I skip most of my time in the arena. All that matters can be boiled down to a few highlights; my time with Rue, how she reminded me of Prim, how Clove screamed for Cato as she died.

He saw everything that happened during the last few hours of the games, where I saved Cato and he saved me, so I don't have to tell him what happened, but I do feel a kind of obligation to at least attempt a description of what I was thinking. To Gale's credit, he listens without criticism while I stumble through my explanation, and when I start to tell what happened after we won, his upper lip curls a bit, but he doesn't cut me off.

"Wow," he finally says once I've stopped talking for a while. "That's… that's crazy."

"Yep."

He hesitates. "You're sure that Career isn't playing you?" he asks. He already knows what my answer will be but wishes he didn't.

"I'm sure," I say. "He's… different. I'm not saying he's a good guy, or even that he's not an awful person, but he isn't what everyone thinks he is. I don't think he is who he thinks he is, either. And everything he does makes me more sure of that."

"Are you sure he's not just…"

"Just what?"

He heaves a very deep sigh. "Just another person in pain, I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand indignantly.

"I don't know. Never mind."

"No, that meant something. I mean, he was in pain, but everyone was."

He stops me. "Not like that. But it doesn't matter. Never mind. So what, are you going to go visit him? Is he coming here or something?" he says, trying to be okay with that.

"Both," I say, screwing up my face, because I know how he'll respond.

He's quiet for a moment. Then, he flops back onto the grass and groans in exasperation. "Are you kidding me? He's coming _here_?"

"No, I'm not kidding," I say, annoyed. "And you can't be a jerk to him when he's here, alright? You have to promise me that. Nobody in his home district likes him right now; he doesn't need anybody else despising him."

"That's how things work, Katniss. You can't change the entire world's opinion."

"I can try," I stick out my tongue at him.

"You can. And you'll probably do it. But that doesn't mean he deserves it."

I lie down next to him, putting my hands behind my head. "Yeah. Well, we've got a lot of time to figure this out. I'm going to be visiting him first, and it won't be for a while."

"I'll go with you," he says instantly.

I laugh, then realize he isn't joking. "Oh. You're serious? No, I'm going on my own," I say, surprised that I need to say this out loud.

"Alone, to a district full of people who hate you?" he snorts. "No."

"They don't hate me. They respect the victors."

Gale's about to argue with me again, but then he stops. "Fine. Like you said, we have a lot of time to talk about it. Let's not fight, not today."

I smile. "I can agree to that."

For a second, the warm sun beats down on our faces as we lie there. Then he says playfully, "So, now that you're a victor, are you too good to hunt?"

"Kidding me? I've practically been training for this." I jump to my feet, pull him to his. "Did you set snares along the way here?"

He raises his eyebrows at me. No other answer is necessary.

We fall back into our rhythm quickly, within minutes. We don't have to speak as we move, me in front, shooting, and him behind, emptying his traps of animals I've scared into them. After we clean and gut everything, it's back under the fence and go to the Hob with what we've got, trading a few of the smaller birds for a bag of apples. Everyone I see seems happy to see me back, though I notice quite a few suspicious glances – they don't understand why I saved a Career, I'm sure. But that's fine. I don't need them to understand.

I make Gale take most of everything. His family needs it more than mine ever will from now on. He protests loudly, something about not being a charity case which I roll my eyes and ignore. All I take is two squirrels and the couple apples that I can fit in my pockets. "Good to see you," I say, giving him a one-armed hug.

He smiles at me, and I know that whatever happens, this right here between the two of us will survive. "You too," he nods. "See you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."

After we go our separate ways, I go straight to the bakery. When I step inside, the first thing I do is look to see if the mother is there. I'll turn right back around and leave if she is, and make this deal another time. Luckily, though, she isn't anywhere to be seen.

Tentatively, I walk up to the counter. Ryan's in the back; he glances up at me and nods once in acknowledgement. His older brother is at the cash register, but when he sees me, he turns and leaves, getting his father from somewhere I can't see and bringing him to me.

Mr. Mellark looks ten years older. I'd swear that his hair is has more grey in it than before, his face more haggard. He has heavy circles under his eyes, and he walks heavily. But when he sees me, his face lightens for a second.

He takes the squirrel, and he tries to give me a huge paper bag full of their best breads, but I won't take it. I try to explain to him that we don't need it – we have more food than we know what to do with. He just keeps pushing that bag at me, though. "You have to take _some_thing," Ryan speaks up from the back, where he's been watching this.

"Okay, fine," I say abruptly, irritated. "Fine. Cheese buns," I say, picking something out of the display case at random. "I'll take three cheese buns, but that's it."

"Fine."

He puts three into a new bag, pressing it into my hands, and I try to smile at him. I'm sure there's things I should be doing, comforting things to be saying, but none of those things are coming to mind. "Thanks," I nod, smiling tightly. "I hope… I'm sorry."

He doesn't say anything in response, just kind of nods sadly, so I leave. I feel like I'm just dragging him down by being here, so I make some kind of excuse and get out. It's not like I'm ever going to make him feel better, anyways. I killed his son. There's no protocol for that situation.

On my way home, I pull out one of the cheese buns and begin to gnaw on it. All I had today was that bread from eleven, so I'm starving. But when I take my first bite of the bun, instantly, I have a new favorite food.

I did intend to give one each to my mother and Prim, but that quickly becomes impossible; I eat all three before I get home. Even the food in the Capitol doesn't compare to these. I love them. I'm not sure what the protocol is now that I'm home – if I'm allowed to eat on my own or if we have to eat together – so I put the squirrel in the kitchen, make an excuse about how not hungry I am, and go to my bedroom.

There's not much to do in there. A TV screen lies flat against one wall, but nothing on any of its channels is ever going to be diverting to me. I guess I could do that remote shopping thing, but that feels stupid. So I end up slipping back outside, past Buttercup who hisses at me. I hiss back, surprising her, which makes me smile as I wander away. I end up at the Mayor's house, knocking on the front door.

Madge answers. "Hi," she says, surprised.

"Hi." We stand there awkwardly for a second before I realize I should say something. "Thanks for the pin. Turned out to be good luck after all."

She nods. "Good. I'm glad." She smiles a little and I get the feeling that if she and I were anyone else, we might be hugging. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. I just…" I wanted to see her, but that's not a thing that we'd say to each other. So I don't finish that sentence. "Do you want that pin back?"

"No, of course not. It's yours," she says hastily. "Don't worry about it."

"Okay. Well, I'll see you around." This visit was a mistake.

Madge nods again, and I turn around and leave. Although that entire interaction was a complete failure, the walk there and back help waste a bunch of time. By the time I get back home, it's almost dark. I head to bed early, hoping that maybe changing up the timing will mean I get more hours of sleep.

It doesn't. I wake up earlier, around one in the morning, thankfully without screaming this time, during the darkest part of the night when everything is still. The house is completely quiet, which kind of drives me crazy, so I get up and pad quietly around, checking to make sure my family's okay.

My mother's in bed, sleeping peacefully, and Prim is burrowed under her soft blankets, her hair splayed over the pillow. I touch her cheek, almost reassuring myself that she's there. Feeling better, I sneak back to my bed, thinking that maybe I'll get back to sleep with more time to do so.

I don't.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: If you asked a question that was answered in the chapter – about POVs, Katniss and Gale, etc, I didn't do an individual reply, because I got 72 reviews from the last chapter and bonus, which is freakin SWEET but a lot. I did do quite a few replies, though. See for yourself.**

**Benevolently Cynical: Honey, I'll do my best. YES YOU CAUGHT THAT. See whenever I do those little things half for myself, you find them. Not sure if I'm flattered or freaked out. Also, machine feeling-ception? As for how District 2 changes him, you will see****…**** I've decided not to release my chapters about how his time alone is. More dramatic if you learn about it as Katniss does, for now. Thanks so much! You gushing makes me blush. **

**Peenis0314: You hit on something really important: he doesn't admit any of these feelings to Katniss, but more importantly to himself. He won't let himself realize it. It's kind of unconscious and definitely because of how he was raised. I see Cato as being really good at compartmentalizing. And I accidentally broke my own heart with that one, because I was trying to figure out how to end that blurb and then I re-read the part from Katniss' POV and it just occurred to me in like a flash of light. I think I made an actual "awwww" sound. **

**LvR93: You've seen the movie 5 times? Super jealous. Study away! Don't worry, there's a lot more story left, so I can be patient about your drawing, even though I'm so EXCITED ABOUT IT. :D Your review for the Bonus made me giggle. I LOVE YOU TOO, OKAY. YOU'RE AWESOME.**

**Bloodredfirefly: THANK YOUUUU it's one of my favorite things. Because you DO get a lot of paragraphs of flowery prose about his childhood in Kato fics, and that makes me want to tear off my ears. So it's nice to be appreciated :) I think it's super-important for Katniss to go home alone, because she's completely changed. She doesn't know her place there anymore, and those things can't be ignored. She doesn't need muscley-man problems in combination. Also, I took your advice and waited 24 from when I last posted, because I didn't want people to miss their bonus. And the bonuses were supposed to be just that, mostly fleshing everything out, so good to hear that's what they did. **

**..Attic: Oh, hi! I was wondering who that was, but I wasn't about to complain. Although reblog notifications have been turned off now, randomly, so I don't see them anymore. **

**FYInichole: I don't hate you for your opinion. I understand why you like the more fluffy stuff, and I promise we'll get to more of that. But I will have to disagree with you about hating Katniss. She's doing the best with what she's got, and love has never been part of what she needs to worry about, so she doesn't quite get it. **

**ILove2Write13: I completely know how you feel about his conditioning****…**** like I want to write the flashbacks or whatever, but on the other hand, I want to curl up and cry. MY POOR BABY. Yep, Cato's got siblings, he says it in the cave. The ones he specifically mentions are a little sister and a little brother. That's all I can say without spoiling things. AND Cato and Prim is definitely on my list of gratuitously cute things to happen. **

**Jae CK: Glad to get a rare review from you! The evolution of them separately vs. together is something interesting that I'll be pointing out later, so keep an eye out for it. Very insightful of you.**

**Leiaa768: Another infrequent reviewer that I'm excited about. WE'VE CONVERTED YOU. This ship is less of a ship and more of a submarine, because it's unsinkable. I'll try to work in some of Katniss with her school people, I agree it's under-represented. And I'll do my best to keep Gale from going nuts, but I think the way it's going, he's gonna end up super-jealous. BUT I'm not going to go some "and then Gale was a poopy-head and nobody liked him" route. Even if Katniss doesn't get it, others do. Gah, YOU'LL SEE, but I'm going to be fair to him. **

**Speares: a showdown in a way****…**** more like several smaller showdowns. I'm trying to be realistic, so as much as I'd like for them to pull out Pokemon and battle it out, that's not too realistic. And yeah, everybody who finishes Mockingjay doesn't like Gale. At least, that's been my experience. And thanks, I was trying to give them different voices. Mission accomplished.**

**obsidian-dream: I literally snorted when I read the "giant cake" suggestion. OH PEETA 3. Roman****…**** that's a good idea, I like that. Hmm.**

**Jawsome: You are deviously snarky to an insane degree. I think there should be some kind of medal for that. GLATO SUCKS. EW GLATO. And he DID make sex eyes, I have the gif of that saved to my computer and I look at it whenever I feel sad. Haymitch is a total boss. He does everything drunk and ROCKS HARDCORE. Lol Cato being a squishy puppy makes me laugh, as does all your intentional innuendoes. And he's super insecure, but not a lot of other people seem to grasp that and it makes me irrationally upset, even though I know it's just an opinion and not a fact. Gale Hawthorne, douchelord. (to steal a phrase from Kim Kardashian) (don't hate me) Sweet Lionel Richie, I love that phrase. And you. *****cough* what?**

**MsCassity: Thank you darling! I'm not even going to begin to claim that I understand them better than SC, though the comparison is uber-flattering. And all of your complements are so eloquent that somehow I feel my " dead" isn't quite enough. You're a beautiful and amazing person and I'm super lucky to have you giving me this much of your time! Enobaria's a fantastic character. She's an evil person who just enjoys being evil, without some tragic backstory. And the "programmed reactions" thing is going to come back, for sure, so Cato can blame himself more, which we all love. :P About the subtle things, that's super gratifying to hear. The thing about 1****st**** person POV is that it's easy to forget there's other people with their own thoughts around. If you have any specific parts you'd like to see a bonus POV of or something, be sure to let me know! And OMG I KNOWWWW already at 272 with just one more chapter. I'm so super stoked. **

**Elea121: You're right – it does matter more to Cato than to Katniss that they're separating, because she's going home to people she loves and he's leaving the only person he does. It won't be for too terribly long, though, I promise! Haymitch's is during chapter 7, but although the look he notices is foretelling love, it isn't necessarily. I agree with you that's it's a little too soon, but not for Cato to feel like Katniss is a spectacular person, which is definitely how Peeta felt. Gale****…**** I don't know if I'll make you **_**love**_** him necessarily, but I hope to make you understand him more. **

**JessJess76: I'm very happy to have satisfied the hopeless romantic in you. That's like the tagline for this story – for hopeless romantics everywhere. YES, THAT'S EXACTLY IT: Katniss makes people want to protect/care for her. I think that's what Peeta was talking about (and Cato) about the effect she has on people. So yes. :) I'm glad you've been enjoying this, and look forward to more reviews! **

**itsjillian: Hahahahaha I'm not sure if I'm sorry that I ruined your social life or very proud of myself. Either way, I'm laughing right now. Gale seems to equal meh for most people around these parts. AND I DO TO, because Clato is a, doomed from the start, and b, impossible. They were literally brainwashed not to care about people. Doesn't make sense that their strongest competition would somehow break through that. The best idea I've seen so far is that Cato had a thing for Clove's older sister, who wasn't a tribute. That gets rid of the creepy age gap thing, too. **

**ngochan: Yeah, Cato's basically feeling lucky that she's even talking to him. And that he's alive. "Achievement unlocked" that's funny. And yeah, she's terrible at being comforting. It's actually almost comedic in the actual series. The wording in some of his POV chapters is awkward. I'm aware of that, I just think it's more realistic :) **

**HUGE shout out again to Jawsome and thepinkmartini for going back and reviewing every chapter in paragraphs. You win some kind of dedication prize, along with the others who have reviewed every single one as we go. I'll have to think about that****…**

**And to londoneyedgirl, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, , The future Mrs. Peeta Mellark, criticderomance, geranium08, bigtimecrazy123, dokinchan, Dra9onf7yz, Kristen36, RachRox12, scarstellstories, books-n-cookies, Mortebella24, Z123, Shelber, Dramione-Fan 17, sourceofmostfrustration, and Marisa Mellark, your reviews were spectacularly nice as well! Love you all! **


	15. Chapter 14

This day sets a precedent for the next several weeks. My days go back a pleasant rhythm, lots of hunting and roaming the woods with Gale as the days warm up. I don't see Haymitch much; he's barricaded himself in his house, leaving only to get more booze. There is one change – my mother recruits me to help deliver all the things I brought back.

This isn't a one-time thing; I brought back so much that she wisely decided to divide up everything so all our friends get a small but steady stream of food. I try to argue with her, making a passionate case for Prim or somebody – anybody – else to make the deliveries, but she refuses. She won't give me an explanation, but she also won't give in. So, after a few days, I do it without complaint.

My nights start to take on an element of ritual, too. About a week after I get home, I wake up screaming yet another time. I've learned by now to give up on sleep after I jerk awake; the images from my dreams are waiting just behind my eyelids to torment me again, and I'm not prepared to face them again. I've also learned that sitting in my bed in the silent house isn't that terrible. I turn my TV on, mute it, and stare at the colorful screen. After a couple nights, I've learned that for some reason, watching something, even old footage of the games, helps me drift into this weird half-awake state, where I think about nothing and everything, and it never hurts.

But this night, things are different. The house isn't silent; something creaks downstairs.

I turn the television completely off and listen intently – yep, something's definitely downstairs. Quietly, I sneak down the steps, pausing after each movement to check that the noise hasn't moved or changed.

I pinpoint it as coming from the kitchen and make my very stealthy way there, stopping completely to assess the situation. I can feel my heartbeat in my temples, feel myself holding my breath, and for a second, it's almost like I'm back in the arena.

Then, I dart into the room, my hands in fists. Before I can think, I've located exactly where the sound is coming from, determined it's a person, and put that person in a headlock, forcing them to their knees on the floor. And then my brain catches up with me, and I realize I'm nearly choking Peeta's brother.

"Sorry," I whisper, letting go of him immediately. "What are you doing here? Nope," I immediately correct myself. I told him he could stop by if he wants, and when he finally does, I almost choke him. "My bad. Are you okay?"

I rummage through drawers until I find matches and candles, then light one and turn back to him so I can see his face. He doesn't look hurt, just surprised and kind of scared. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says. "Actually, I was just leaving." He's backing towards the door.

"No, don't. I said you can come over whenever you needed to, and I meant it. That's why the door's unlocked." I stick the candle to the table with some of the melted wax, and I sit in a chair at the kitchen table. "What's going on?"

"Really, it's okay. I didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry."

"You didn't. I was already awake."

"Really?" he asks, hesitating by the door, looking at me askance. I guess I can understand why, though – I must look something terrible, with my father's oversized jacket over a tank-top and soft leggings.

"Yeah, really. I'm up every night about now. Really," I repeat when he still looks unsure.

"Why's that?" he asks, tentatively taking a seat. The candle flickers a little, casting long shadows on his face, making his ashy blond hair shine like Peeta's did in that damn cave. I can't lie to either of them. I'll never be able to.

"Nightmares," I say shortly, and for a second, a few of the hellish images from my dreams almost come to life in the shadowy corners of the room.

"Is it too nosy to ask what about?" he says. He's ready to play it off as a joke if I take this wrong, I can see it in his eyes and posture. I'm good at seeing these types of things, especially since the games.

I guess I don't have a problem with telling him, but he showed up here in the middle of the night, so something is clearly wrong and he's not telling me. So I offer up a deal. "No. I'll tell you. But first you tell me what's going on with you. Why are you here?"

"You said I could come," he says, unsure.

"Oh, no, I don't have a problem with it, but I want to know why? Are you hurt?"

"No…" he starts to say, then quickly corrects himself. "Well yeah, but not more than… no I'm fine, it'll be fine."

"So why are you here?" I repeat for a third time.

He sighs, licks his lips, and gives in. "Okay. I got kicked out."

"What?" I can't believe my ears.

"It's not a big deal. Like, I don't need somewhere new to live. She does this every couple of weeks to one of us. She still expects me to come back in the morning," he says, like this is no big deal. He really means it, too, he's not being a smartass.

"What'd you do?" Bad question, I realize too late, and immediately correct myself. "Wait, hold on, let me do my part of the deal."

He smiles at me, and for some reason, his smile looks so like Peeta's that a sharp ache flares up in my chest. "Okay," he says.

"Um. Well, first of all, most of the nightmares aren't about me."

"Yeah?" he says curiously. "What are they about?"

"Peeta," I say, sounding falsely confident.

"Oh."

"Yeah. He keeps dying. In about fifty different ways."

I shouldn't be telling him this. It's his brother that died. He knew him for more than a week. He doesn't need to hear about my nightmares. I'm sure they pale in comparison to his. I guess that's why he doesn't answer.

"She asked who's been giving you all the cheese buns," he states flatly, not offering any judgment about this.

Well, don't I feel like a terrible person. Instantly, I feel my face go hot. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," I say miserably. "I'm sorry. Are you okay? Did she…" I can't ask straight up if she hit him. Even I won't do that.

"No, it's fine, don't feel bad. I told her I did. It's not a big deal," he says dismissively. "Don't sweat it. And I did it on purpose."

"Why?"

"Because she was going to blame somebody. Doesn't matter in the end." He shrugs.

"I'm never going to take anything again, I'm so sorry," I say, rubbing my eyes and determinedly not crying. "I just keep screwing you guys over, don't I."

"Not your fault." He shakes his head, his tone blank. "Not this. I decided to tell her. And other things happened in the games. You did him a favor."

"I know… but that doesn't make me feel any better about it. I just keep… I see his face, when he… he _asked_ me to kill him." I am crying now, tears streaking down my face and off my chin. "And I don't know how I'm supposed to be okay with that."

"Yeah," he whispers from across the table. I can't tell what his face looks like, because I don't dare look up.

"So that's my nightmares, pretty much," I say bravely, wiping the streaks off my face. "Depressing, but you asked."

"I did," he nods, then says hesitantly. "I'm bleeding."

I understand what he's doing; I'm stupidly honest and he'll be, too, if only to make me feel better. He likes to make me feel better, like his brother. "Where?" I ask, getting up.

"My arm," he says, holding it up. Sure enough, there's blood dripping and caked on his arm. It's been hiding in the shadows, but now I don't know I missed it.

I don't ask what happened. That's none of my business, and it's not going to change a thing. At least it's something I can handle, so I don't have to wake up Mom for this. It shouldn't even need stitches. I feel my way around the kitchen, since the light is so dim, and find the first aid materials that I know should be nearby. Some things never change, and one of those things is my mother's preparedness for injury.

I put a few things on the table – bandages, sticky sutures, and rags to clean off all the blood. I fill a bowl with water and put it there along with another candle because the first one's isn't bright enough. He's got his arm on the table, stretched out for me.

The first few swipes of the rag across his skin are like this terrible déjà vu, because I remember how I cleaned out his brother's wounds, too, in a dark, cold cave. But I make my fingers stay steady. The water flickers with candlelight, throwing tiny pieces of light across the room that fade out when the water turns pink with his blood.

"Tell me if I hurt you," I say quietly, and he nods. He doesn't say one word while I scrub his skin clean, and just winces a bit when I squeeze the edges of his cut together and hold it shut with the sutures. "Sorry," I mumble, and wrap up his arm tightly with the gauze.

"Thanks," he says softly, itching over the bandage uncomfortably.

"Of course. Need anything else?" I dump the water down the sink and put everything back.

"No. But thanks. You're… you're being really nice about this whole thing. Sure you aren't just feeling guilty about my brother?" he says, sounding somewhat glum.

"That's part of it. That's sure part of it," I nod, sitting back down in the chair, legs crossed.

"Alright," he says flatly. "Then as long as we're being honest, I should tell you that I kind of hate you. I know I shouldn't, but I do."

Why does it make me feel better to hear him admit that? I think because I don't have to guess at it anymore. Now I know. "As long as we're being honest," I repeat. "So do I."

That seems to make him feel better. "I don't hate you a lot," he says after a second.

I laugh once, harshly, wiping my eyes with my knuckles. "Really? Cuz I do. A lot."

He doesn't answer me, which is fair, I guess. So I just sit there, curled up, because I don't want to move. We're saying out loud all these things that usually can't be said, and I almost think I'm going to be sick. I'm curiously light all of a sudden, because I now this is all out in the open. If I told Gale this, he'd tell me why I did the right thing. Same for Haymitch. I could never let Prim or my mother know how I feel. And Cato wouldn't know what to say; he wouldn't understand.

But Ryan gets it. He knows how I feel, and he isn't judging me for it. He's letting me just exist the way I am; broken, manipulative, and alone.

After an eternity of silence, I speak up, my voice hoarse and cracked. "You can sleep. I'll wake you up in time."

"You sure?" he says, clearing his throat. "You don't want to get any sleep yourself, or…"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I told you, I wouldn't sleep anyways," I say wearily. "Really. You can have my bed if you want. Leave through the window or something."

"Nah, I'll be fine here. But thanks." He pulls the chair closer to the table and puts his head down in his arms so all I can see is his blond hair. In minutes, his breathing slows and he's asleep. I'd almost be impressed by his faith in me, but then I remember; he's never been in the arena. He's never been scared for his life for days on end. I did see that fear in his eyes for a second back there, behind the bakery, but a moment of terror is nothing like relentless hours of it. He's still relatively innocent.

I sit awake, staring at the candle, watching as the wax drips down the candle into a puddle at the bottom. Soon, all that's left is a puddle, and the flame winks out. Then I sit there in silence, looking at the faint gleam that is his hair and not thinking about much of anything.

Before the sun is up, right when the sky is starting to turn lighter blue, with touches of pink, I stir. I reach out and jostle his shoulder a little. He sits straight up, eyes still mostly shut. "What is it?" he mumbles.

"Time to go home."

"Oh." He stretches, rubs his eyes drowsily. "Okay."

I stand up, joints creaking, and he does, too, holding onto the table for support. He makes his way to the door, then turns and looks me in the eyes. "Thanks," he says.

"Any time."

One corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile, and then he's gone.

I walk unsteadily up to my bedroom and without thinking, I lie down in my bed. It's actually probably a really good that I don't think, because I'd overthink it and not fall asleep. Somehow, though, I manage to actually drift off again, suddenly heavy eyes closing. The nightmares stay thankfully blurry, and when I wake up again, it's not in terror from something that happened in my mind, it's from sunlight warming my face.

Still, I wake up all at once, sitting straight up and scanning the room for danger. Prim and my mother must've let me sleep. I get dressed and go downstairs, listening for any sign of either of them, but the house seems to be empty.

There are two notes on the kitchen table with my name on them. I open the one in my mother's handwriting first.

_Delivering a baby. Have a nice day._

Short, but to the point. I drop it back on the table and open the other note, written in Gale's rough script.

_Hey, sleepy-head. I'm not waiting for you. Abandoned house. I'll make breakfast._

I stuff the note in my pocket, smiling. That's Gale.

I head straight out for the fence, slipping through the dead patch and jogging to the tree where my bow is hidden with a bit more haste than usual. There's another note folded around my bowstring.

_You're late, Catnip._

I roll my eyes, exaggeratedly annoyed, but as I set off for the abandoned house, I can't help but smile. He's so obnoxious. But I walk a little faster on my way there.

He's got a small fire lit – I can see the glow before I can see him. Perfect: I get to yell at him. "Hey idiot, are you trying to bring wild animals down on your head?" I say.

"You're just a paranoid freak," he snorts, squatting by the fire. "Nobody else would even be able to see it. Now do you want food or not?"

I never turn down food. He knows that. I sit down by him, putting my legs out straight, and hold my hand out expectantly. Smiling, he puts a cheese bun in it and then laughs outright at my shock and immediate joy. "Where did you get this?" I demand, cradling it gently.

"The bakery," he smirks. "You're welcome."

"I take back what I said about being obnoxious," I say fervently, taking a tiny bite before deciding to throw caution to the wind and chow down.

He frowns. "You didn't call me obnoxious."

Shit. That was just a thought. "Oh. Well. I'm sure I did at one point," I cover.

"You _think_ I'm obnoxious," he realizes, and I can't tell if he's actually upset or not. "That's good. I want my cheese bun back."

"Positively not. Never." I shake my head, turning away from him. "Don't joke about these things, Gale."

"Who said I'm joking?"

I glare at him and change the subject. "So you came to my house today?"

"Yeah. Prim's a smart girl," he observes wryly, and something's off in his tone.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I frown.

He sighs and sits down, resting his arms on top of his knees. "She sees more than you think she does," he says. "Maybe you should consider that."

"Explain yourself," I demand.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you've been different since you came back," he says uneasily, clearly expecting me to get mad.

"Different how?"

"You've been more… more harsh? You snap at everybody and say kind of mean things and the bad thing is that you don't even realize it." He pauses. "I mean, I'm not trying to say you're a bad person or anything. You don't even know you're doing it, I'm sure. But you have changed. And Prim's noticed."

I feel tears building up in my eyes, hot and angry. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know… she can say it better than I can." He looks at me. "Don't go all weird on me, Katniss, I'm not trying to make you upset. You asked me, and you wouldn't leave me alone if I didn't tell you right away. You know that."

He's very persuasive. And also very right. "That's true," I admit glumly, finishing the bun.

"And I'm not saying it's your fault, either. You survived the Hunger Games," he points out. "Nobody from here does that. Maybe it's usual for victors to change like this. I don't know. But you're not the same person."

That I can agree with. "No, I am not," I agree.

"But I still like you. Even this way."

Something about that is weird, the way he's saying it or maybe the way he means it. "That just makes you stupid," I say, joking to stop this creepy serious vibe going on. "I'll talk to Prim, I guess, then. Thanks." I stand up, brushing the dirt off my pants. "So are we going to do this hunting thing now?"

"So we're not even going to talk about it more?" he says, sounding angry, standing too.

"What's there to talk about?" I answer, officially upset with him for being so strange. "Gale, stop acting like a weirdo. If we don't start hunting pretty soon…" Actually, it's not a big deal anymore, because we're not hunting for our families' livelihoods anymore, so there goes that argument. "…then I'm going to just head home," I finish, admittedly less strongly.

"I don't know, maybe you might try to change, even a little?" He doesn't back down.

"Thanks for the input, Gale, but I'll change whenever the hell I want, without your guidance," I say sharply, crossing my arms.

"Is this how you treated that Career kid? Huh?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hot tears are pricking at the back of my eyes. I can't believe he's saying this. Gale, of all people. I thought he'd understand.

"Did you yell at _him_ like this?" he asks furiously, taking a step towards me.

"Do you even know how stupid and petty you sound?" I shout, stomping my foot, his face blurring from the tears in my eyes. I feel hot all over, a strange combination of ashamed and pissed off. There's nothing I can do to express how angry-scared I am – angry that he's making me feel like this, scared because I didn't know he could.

"You're not answering. Great sign," he says sarcastically.

"Really? You want an answer? Fine," I spit out, glaring at him as fiercely as I can. "No, I didn't yell at him like this. But he never treated me like this. Gale, what are you doing?" I demand, trying to snap him out of this psychotic jealous state.

It doesn't work. "You go to the Capitol, make friends with some Career from his rich family, and you're too good for us back here?"

"Are you even listening to yourself? That doesn't even make _sense_," I say desperately. I don't even mention how wrong he is about Cato's family – I'm not sure he'll understand anymore. "This is my home, Gale, this is where I belong."

"Is it, though?" he says cruelly, narrowing his eyes.

I officially can't deal with him anymore. "Don't you dare speak to me _ever_ again," I scream at him, and storm away. Anything or anyone could sneak up on me at this point and I wouldn't even notice – all I can hear is blood pounding though my head. Everything I see is blurry and out of focus, and I can barely walk without falling. I don't even remember to put my father's bow back in its hollow tree.

There's no words to describe what I'm feeling, because I'm pretty positive that nobody else in the history of the entire world has ever felt so betrayed. I thought he understood me like nobody else did. I thought he'd never make me feel anything other than safe.

And bringing up Cato, that added a whole new level of pain to the whole argument. I haven't even thought about him since I got home. Selfishly, I guess, since what I've been doing instead is enjoying the pretense of normality, trying to forget everything that happened in the Capitol. While I was doing that, though, I accidentally forgot the good things, too. I didn't let myself remember how nice Cato was, how happy he was when I said I'd visit him. I mean, I've explained to everyone that he's not a mean person, with varying degrees of success, but other than that, he's barely crossed my mind.

So now, in addition to the betrayal and anger and all of that, I've got crippling guilt.

I have to fix this. With Gale being so irrational, I guess it's the perfect time for me to get out of here, out of all the possible times.

So it's settled. I'm going to visit Cato in District 2.

Just deciding this makes me feel better. I focus on that thought almost obsessively, repeating it over and over in my head so I don't think about what Gale just did. I fall on the stairs on my way up to my bedroom, but get right back up, repeating my mantra. I put the bow and quiver on my bed and go straight to the phone in the kitchen. My mother emerges from somewhere and asks me something, but I don't answer.

Cato's number is on the wall right next to it, where I wrote it the second day I got back. Hands shaking, I dial it, press the phone to my ear, and try not to think at all about what I'll do if he doesn't pick up.

"Hello?"

I've never been more relieved to hear someone's voice. "It's Katniss," I say, lacing my fingers into my hair and curling the fingers into a fist. I take several deep breaths, trying to keep my voice steady and normal-sounding and failing. Mom walks into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, listening, but I don't pay much attention to her.

"What's wrong?" he immediately asks.

"I'm leaving on the next train to come see you," I say, leaning against the wall. "Is that okay? Can I do that?" I finish nervously.

"Yeah," he agrees. "When are you leaving?"

I glance up at the clock. "Twenty-two minutes. When am I going to get there?"

"By tonight. Is everything alright?"

"No. But I'm bad at the phone. Can we talk later?" I say desperately.

"Sure," he agrees right away.

"Okay," I sigh in relief.

"Okay," he repeats.

We're both quiet for a second. "So I'll see you tonight," I say.

"Sounds good," he says, then adds, "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

His concern almost makes me cry again, which is insane. "I'm fine. See you tonight."

"Yeah, okay," he says, but I can tell he's worried.

"Bye."

"Bye."

I hang up, take a second to lean against the wall and breathe. For the first time, I notice my mother's face. She looks concerned, but not devastated. "Honey, are you alright?" she asks me gently.

I've been through counting on her since my father died, but right now, I want nothing more than to let her hold me. So that's what happens, and I let myself cry for a second.

"Why are you leaving?" she asks, stroking my hair. "What happened?"

"No reason," I shake my head, pulling back and wiping my eyes. "I'm just due for a visit."

"Gale?" she says knowledgably.

I want to burst into tears again, but instead, I grit my teeth and don't answer. "Where's Prim? I need to say goodbye."

"She's at the bakery. Here." She hands me Cinna's jacket, mockingjay pin on the lapel, folded up neatly. "I hope you have fun." She smiles sadly, and I realize not for the first time that my mother is a very complex person.

"Thanks. I love you," I say after a second. "Bye." I let her pull me in for another hug and then I go, jacket over one arm securely. I don't think about anything on my brisk walk there, just repeat to myself that I'm going to see Cato. I can handle that. I can focus on that.

So I don't end up realizing where I'm going until I'm there. The bakery, as in where Peeta's family is. It's too late to turn back, though, because I have a little more than ten minutes before I have to be on the train.

Prim's inside, carefully icing cookies under the supervision of Mr. Mellark. When she sees me, she smiles happily at first. I remember what Gale said about her being observant, knowing I'd changed, and he was right. She is observant; she sees my face and immediately drops the smile. "Katniss, what's wrong?" she asks with concern.

"I'm going to visit Cato," I tell her, determined not to cry. "So I'm saying bye."

"Why, what happened?" She comes over to me and hugs me tightly, then examines my face. In the background, I realize Mr. Mellark and Ryan are both looking at me worriedly, but I pay no attention to them.

"Nothing," I try to claim. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Did Gale do something?" she asks.

First my mother and then her. Am I really so easy to read? Or maybe they understand that he's the only person who could make me feel this way. "Yeah, yeah he did. Do you think I'm different now?" I ask softly.

Prim narrows her eyes, looking very fierce for a second. "What did Gale tell you?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know I was acting any different-" I start to say.

"Katniss. I don't think you're being that different. I just said that because he was being so angry. He shouldn't have said anything about that. You have changed, but that's okay," she says firmly. "You're still a good person. And you don't have to be sorry."

We hug again, and I marvel at how fantastic she is. She's so beautiful and good, and I'm lucky she's my sister. "I love you so much," I whisper into her hair. As we separate, I look up and see Ryan and his father studiously not looking at us. "Sorry," I say to them.

"Don't worry about it," Ryan assures me. "I'll walk you to the train station." He looks to his father quickly to make sure that it's okay, and then he takes off his apron and comes over to Prim and me. "You can stay here," he says to Prim. "Those flowers are looking great."

She smiles a little, then looks to me to make sure it's okay.

"I'll see you later, it's fine," I assure her. "I'm not leaving forever."

"Alright. Have fun," she says. She's so sweet and sincere, but so damn strong. She's perfect. "I'll tell Haymitch you're going. And don't pay attention to whatever Gale said."

I nod to make her feel better. I won't let myself cry in front of her. "Bye," I say, waving half-heartedly to Mr. Mellark because this is really awkward. He waves back and I get out of there as fast as possible, Ryan following behind.

"Did me coming over have anything to do with this?" he asks in an undertone.

"No, no, absolutely not. Not even a tiny bit," I say positively, shaking my head, walking fast.

"Then it was that Gale kid," he says, halfway between a question and statement.

"Yeah," I say sharply.

"Is it rude to ask what he said?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Morbid curiosity. And it's so weird to just go running off to another district – you should just make sure it's for a good reason. That's all."

He's just looking out for me. I should've guessed. "Oh. Thanks, but this is what I want to do. I'm sure of it." We're both walking quickly, so we're almost at the train station.

"Why?" he asks again, seriously worried.

I stop walking, because we've got the time. "Honestly? I never thought I'd feel like this ever," I say, clenching my hands into fists to stop their shaking. "There's nothing here for me right now. And I said I'd visit him. It's been a little more than a month, it's time."

"Wait, how do you feel?" he asks as we start walking towards the train station.

"There aren't words. I don't know." I stop talking and speed up because I over my shoulder, I see Gale walking towards us. "Go faster, hurry," I say quietly.

He glances back, too, and sees Gale. Bless him, he speeds up and moves so he's kind of between the two of us, shielding me. "That bad?" he mutters, lifting me up into the train with impressive speed.

"Thanks," I say to him. "For everything. I'll see you when I get back. You should probably go – he looks pissed."

He definitely does – Ryan can see it when he glances back at him. "Alright. Here. Bye." He hands me a paper bag that I recognize as one from the bakery.

I reach out and take it, grab his hand for a second, squeeze it tight, and then let go, and he leaves, walking away at a considerably fast pace. I don't blame him, though, considering how Gale looks right now. I wish I could run away, too.

I slam the door shut and latch it so he can't get in. Unfortunately, there are a lot of windows, and they're all open, so I can hear it when he starts to talk. "Katniss, don't do this," he shouts. "Where are you even going?"

"District 2. Where I belong, right?" I say sharply out of a window before slamming it shut.

"Don't twist my words," he yells angrily. "I didn't mean that."

"Convincing," I marvel with as much sarcasm as I can get past my nerves. I close another window as hard as I can and move onto the next one.

"Can't we just talk about this?" he says, following me down to the next window. He's trying to sound so reasonable, but I know he's still angry. I know how to tell that much, at least.

"We did. And if you recall, I said not to talk to me again." I close the third window. "And I meant that." I close the fourth.

He's still following me. "Just get off the train," he pleads. "Don't make any stupid choices."

"Oh, so now I'm stupid _in addition_ to being arrogant, a mean person, and not belonging here?" I say, refusing to look at him, because I'm so angry I can't see straight. I don't know if I've ever hated someone more and wanted to less. "Great. I'll remember that."

He curses. "Damn it, Katniss, stop it. No, that's not what I meant."

"Then maybe you should start thinking before you talk again. Stay away from me." I close another window – there's just one left. I don't close it quite yet because even though I'm absolutely pissed at him, I can't completely shut him out. Not even now.

"So what, I say one wrong thing and you're on to the next blond kid you can find?" he snaps at me, pounding on the side of the train with one fist.

"Get away," I shout, retreating to the other side of the train car and curling up in a soft chair, throwing the bag from Ryan and Cinna's jacket in the chair next to me. There's an Avox girl standing in the train car, I realize, so quiet that I didn't notice she was here. She seems terrified of our yelling, and I don't blame her. "Just go away, Gale. Leave me alone."

He hops up on his tiptoes or something so I see his face for just a second – he's furious at me, annoyed, and he wants me to just get off and forgive him. That might've happened before, back before he ripped out my heart. Now, I just don't speak and let him attempt to argue with me. It isn't going to work.

The warning bell sounds – the train's about to start moving. He backs away reluctantly, and I hear his muffled swearing. "Katniss!" he shouts one last time.

I don't answer, and then the train hums to life, moving slowly and picking up speed. In seconds, he's far behind me. I don't have to even think about him anymore. I won't.

It occurs to me that I've got more than six hours here, alone, with only this Avox for company. I can't avoid these thoughts all by myself. "Is there a book or something on this train?" I ask her. "Something that isn't about the games."

She nods silently and moves quietly away, coming back a few minutes later with a thick book. It's not a history book, at least not like the ones in school back home. The cover is brightly colored, words on it written in whimsical letters. This is a story book.

I open it suspiciously, not knowing what to expect. What I find, though, is an adventure. It's far enough removed from reality to take me away with the characters and their escapades. I'm a good reader, but not a fast one, so the book takes me a while. I take a break for food halfway through.

Curiously, I open the bag from Ryan. I know what's in it the instant I smell it: cheese buns. A dozen of them, at least. Bless his generous heart. I make a mental note to thank him when I come back home, and put a few in my lap. By the time I finish the book, I've eaten all of them. Also, I've arrived at the conclusion that I might like reading.

We've stopped in the Capitol, and gaudy lights are fading in the distance. Apparently, this train goes straight to two, by some strange twist of fate, which is good, because I'm not sure if I could handle figuring out which train to get on next, cameras in my face while I look like complete crap. Pretty sure Haymitch would kill me for ruining my image, too.

I want to thank the Avox for bringing the book to me, but I'm not sure if that'll get her in trouble, so I don't say anything. I uncurl my legs and stand, stretching. I don't know how much time is left in this trip, but I'm not too worried. I fold my legs back under me in the chair, watch vague shapes flicker by the windows, watch the sky turn from purple-red to black as the sun sets behind distant mountains, and try not to think about exactly what I'm running from, who I'm running from. Because of what Gale did to me, if I think much longer, I'm going to get even more broken than I already am.

I'm not sure how much longer I ride on that train. I'm too busy doing my best to not shake, or cry, or crack, or die. Any of these things are possible if I try to process what Gale said, what he did, all the myriad ways he just broke my heart. Gale, who was close as a brother, better than a best friend, but never anything that I could name.

He wasn't supposed to do this to me. Nobody was ever supposed to be able to make me feel like this, so shaky and unsure, scared of everything and nothing and ready to tear the world apart to find out how to make it stop. Maybe leaving wasn't the best choice. Maybe Prim could help me figure out what to do.

In my heart, though, I know leaving is the best choice. Gale wouldn't leave me alone until I say I forgive him, and that would drive me crazy. Because I can't forgive him for what happened. Not really. Not ever. I needed to get away from those woods, the house, the people. I need to figure everything out. I need to figure _me_ out, without having to worry about anybody else's feelings.

And I need Cato. I might as well admit that. He never wants a thing from me. He takes care of me. I guess I just want that, to be taken care of. Part of me must've known that all along, the part that went for the phone without any real thought.

Leaving was definitely the right decision. I don't need to feel guilty about it, but it's pretty clear I do. Luckily, that's soon overwhelmed by the shaky guilt, sadness, and panic, which is then overwhelmed by numbness I force over everything.

I spend the last portion of the trip sitting numbly in that chair, looking out the window and not feeling anything. Finally, I feel it slowing down, so I tie Cinna's jacket around my waist and lock my arms around my knees, suddenly nervous for some reason. Soon, I find the numbness again, and hang onto it with a death grip, not letting myself think.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: Three hundred reviews already! You guys are awesome, seriously. I've begun transcribing the written versions of the bonus POVs for the 400 review mark. I don't have much to say, really, so here are my replies to you, my darlings. (WARNING: most of them are very long)**

**Benevolently Cynical: I remain unspeakably apologetic for making your little sister cry. Quick! Get her ice cream! (I am also proud of myself, but that's a secret.) Thank you! I enjoy her trying to be normal again, it's interesting. And Gale. Oh, Gale. I'm going to give him the best arc possible, given my feeling about him. And I was unclear – you'll get his POV eventually, but more as a flashback type thing. YOU'LL SEEEEEEE! But I have several secrets to keep for now. Mua ha ha. (FORTY. POUNDS.) Cheesy and creepy is our normal. Cato & Prim will happen, a lot, because this is a Kato story and Prim is her sister. They're my favorite. Here, take my heart; it gets in the way of my writing. **

**Tally Jennifer Youngblood: about Gale and her being friends – I know I just destroyed that for the time being, but I PROMISE CROSS MY HEART that I'm not going to be unfair to him. They've had years of friendship. One fight isn't going to ruin that. Next chapter will be district 2.**

**axemama: Alright, you bring up a really good point – Katniss's feelings and descriptions of her mother are contradictory at times, even/especially in the actual series. As kids grow up, they're forced to see their parents more as real people, and that's happening Katniss with the added layers of what happened after her father died and her mom fell into depression. So yes, she doesn't forgive her mother for abandoning her, and she blames her for ending her childhood too soon, but she understands her more, and she loves her – that's always been a given. But abandonment, especially for children, is the ultimate betrayal. It's a theme throughout literature from all times, the responsibility of a mother to her children and what happens when that's violated. Also, hard for an eleven year old kid to understand depression enough to help. I'm sure she did what she could, but like you say, Katniss isn't really capable of perceiving the depth of her mother's loss, so she just feels betrayed. If you've seen the movie Poker House, a similar thing happens to Jennifer Lawrence's character there. Does that make sense?**

**justtinex3: Another conversion! Thank you so much for the comparison to the real trilogy. I'm sure this one's going to end up less symbolic and meaningful and metaphorical, but I appreciate the complement. One thing I've learned from this fandom is MULTISHIPPING. Most Kato fans do enjoy Peeniss as well (no innuendo intended).**

**FYInichole: Glad you enjoy my responses! I try to make them interesting, at least. Here's what I think about people making Gale evil: he's a hard character to handle, because in any other situation, he'd end up with Katniss. He's the childhood best friend, he knows her better than literally anyone. It would make sense. So in order to make them not together, you really have to do some plot acrobatics. Easiest option is to make him a douchelord, but I'm going to try to either avoid or invert that trope. We'll see. Wish me luck. **

**Bloodredfirefly: Sorry for your arm ache! I take full responsibility :) Don't hyperventilate! Thanks so much. I should get a plaque or something, judging from what everyone's saying. **_**Only fanfiction author to take Katniss Everdeen home after Peeta's death**_**. Somebody, get on that. **

**Pyromaniac275: I'm gonna be honest with you – I'm not sure how to take your review. Like, you had several valid criticisms and also some nice complements, and you're obviously not just someone who gets caught up with semantics and is a jerk about it, but I reread it twice and I'm still not sure if you like my story or not. So****…**** thank you? Definitely thanks for your time – longest review I've gotten by a long shot. I'll still address the points you bring up, either way. Any criticism's good criticism. **

**Cato does fall for Katniss quickly, and it's hard to see why from her POV, but basically, here's what he's thinking. Emotionally, he's a child. He has no concept of compassion or kindness, and he doesn't know it, but he's pretty much starving for someone to treat him as anything more than a piece of meat. (Sexy meat.)(And this is all in my interpretation. Not making any assumptions on the actual character.) So when someone comes along like Katniss, who's everything he values and also nice, it blows his mind. She disproves the things he's been told about kindness being weakness, because she's not weak, so yeah, he almost immediately falls for her, but it's more like puppy love at that point. Infatuation with the idea of her, really. And as time goes on, and he gets to know her (and himself) more, **_**then**_** that turns into something more like adult love. Less irking now?**

**Haymitch may be OOC. I accept that. And I still love him. I guess I was thinking he'd step up to the plate a little more when Katniss fell apart, but to be honest, I just love how he is in the third book, and that's how I write him. **

**I haven't yet decided about Katniss getting reaped. Maybe? Maybe not. We'll see. I'm going to figure out the arena first; for some reason, that's how my thought process is going. I'm actually not trying to stay near the books at all. Honestly, that hasn't been a part of my thought process, so there are no guarantees. NO ONE IS SAFE. I seriously am considering having someone close to Katniss go in instead. Time will tell.**

**Yep, typos are everywhere. They're the glitter of writing. I'm doing this on my own, without a beta, on top of a full college schedule, so I'm going to cut myself some slack on that one. The worst of the errors should be gone soon, due to the efforts of the lovely LvR93, but until then, sorry. I could spend extra time on proofreading myself, true, but that's not that high on my priority list right now. **

**I also must confess that I giggled at your username, because Katniss is the girl on fire and you're a pyromaniac. Alright, doesn't sound as funny out loud, but it is late, and I am tired. Other comments aside, I don't think you came across as any kind of prick, much less an excessively high class one, so mission accomplished. Thanks for the super-long review, it really was quite detailed and I appreciate the thought.**

**Jawsome: I just found another sex eyes gif, so now I have two. Excellent. I just find it funny because they're supposed to be enemies and there he is, undressing her with his eyes. Lol Cato. Don't give the Kardashians any points – she probably got confused and didn't mean to say it. (too mean?) Your Deviously Snarky Package sounds very expensive. Where'd you pick it up? I need one before we can start a soap opera. Snark is always on soap operas.**

**Geez, EVERYBODY's sad there's no Cato. Peeta's older brother presented quite the conundrum for me: he was just supposed to be like a filler-type character, to give her closure or whatever, but I ended up liking him way more than I thought. THERE WILL BE AN EPIC BATTLE****…**** more like a fistfight. You'll see. I promise Cato wins, though. (sorry, spoilers)**

**You caught that! The tiny ways she misses him. That makes my shipper heart happy. The now kiss meme is the patron meme for this story. Cajilion baybeez, on teh wayyy! I hate Glimmer. No, let me clarify – I hate Glimmer with Cato. On her own, I guess she's interesting. Sort of. "Get to the lovin'" yes you are creepy, but I accept it. That's exactly my stance on scented soaps. Smell good. Use? No. **

**MsCassity: Definitely worth the wait! Mrs. Mellark is going to get her comeuppance, and that is a promise. She totally pisses me off, especially in the actual series. (Katniss isn't the one who does it, though. She has too much class.)**

**Alright, all joking aside, Gale totally does get the short end of the stick, and I do feel sorry for him. Imagine how he felt, killing Prim who was basically his little sister. Poor baby. No, I'm going to keep him close, and he will get a moderately happy ending, no less happy than everybody else. **

**YOU USED THE WORD SYLLOGISM LET ME MARRY YOU. *****ahem* Thank you. I tried really hard to make this part realistic-ish. Cato is back in the next chapter, and he's full of angst! **

**ILove2Write13: Sort of. Sort of not. Gale respects her, so he's not going to like, kidnap her and override her input, but****…**** I can say no more. Like I promised MsCassity, though, someone IS going to smack the mother. She's a poopyhead. **

**Geranium08, Speares, dokinchan, Dra9onf7yz, RachRox12, criticderomance, thepinkmartini, Peenis0314, jaclynheartz, Mrs. Brialla Mellark, Caella, FelicisEcho9988, Marisa Mellark, scoco, Dramione-Fan 17, olivialovesyou, elea121, and ..Attic, you're all amazing, too, and I love you. Thanks for devoting so much time to this story. It was basically just supposed to be the outlet for my feels, but it's turned into so much more because of you. DFTBA!**


	16. Chapter 15

The instant the train stops moving, I jump up and knock over six separate pieces of furniture on my way to the door. There's no time to be worried about whether or not Cato's there waiting for me, because I'm barely out the door when I see him.

Cato doesn't say a word, doesn't have to. I run the few steps to get to him, slamming into his chest hard, but he's immovable. He wraps his huge arms around me and I feel so safe that I'm instantly glad I came here. Biting my lip, I hold him tightly back, and I feel my arms shaking, but not with as much nervousness and more with relief.

"Hi," I finally say.

"Hey," he says back, his voice deep in his chest.

I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not alright, but he doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't move until I do, and then, he only pulls back a little, to check my face.

"Thank you so much," I say to him, putting my head against his chest again.

"No problem." He puts his arms back around me again and they're so impossibly thick and strong that I can't help but love how secure he makes me feel. Finally, I pull away again, and his hands slip down around my waist loosely. "What do you need?" he asks simply.

"Somewhere alone and quiet. I'll talk to everybody here later, I promise."

"No, don't worry about it," he says immediately. "It's fine." People are beginning to look at us, recognizing me and whispering. "C'mon, we should probably get out of here," he says gruffly. He takes my hand and leads me away from the train, through the streets lined with buildings much taller than any I've seen anywhere but in the Capitol. The people strolling about are dressed gaudily, in outfits clearly meant to mimic the latest fashions but only end up looking ridiculous and slightly worn.

They all look at me with wide eyes when they realize who I am. Or maybe they don't recognize me, maybe it's just the clothes. I must look pretty outlandish to them, in my boots and leather jacket, with Cinna's blazer tied around my waist. And I'm pretty sure most of them don't know what a braid is, judging by the hairdos they're all sporting.

I don't get much of a chance to gawk, though, because Cato's walking pretty fast, looking at everything like it's going to jump out and attack us. I don't understand that – this city is clean and luxurious, Peacekeepers everywhere. And tributes, too, all dressed in stretchy jumpsuits like the ones we wore during training. They have the same look Cato and Clove did at first; murderous, determined, focused, and slightly insane.

It's crazy to think about how much he's changed, how I went from being so scared of him to running to him for comfort when I don't know what else to do. For a moment, I'm tempted to be scared of him going back to how he was, but I'm too busy trying not to fall apart in public.

He glances at me, and I think he can tell what I feeling. "Just a little farther," he says.

I nod. I notice we've been heading into the less wealthy part of town – smaller, less shiny buildings, people in clothes that are more normal-looking. Still, though, it's nicer than most of my entire district.

We go up in an elevator and into an apartment that he unlocks with a key from a chain around his neck. It's empty and dark, empty of almost everything, but I don't care – that makes it kind of perfect.

He closes the door, and then stands there awkwardly, and I'm pretty sure he just doesn't know what I want. I just want him to hold me, really, but if I say that, I'll sound ridiculously weak, even by my emotional standards, so I just do it, throwing my arms around him and immediately starting to cry.

Damn it.

He doesn't seem to be bothered by it, though. His big arms go around me in return, and through my crying, it sinks in that his chin fits perfectly on top of my head. "What happened?" he asks after about a minute of me crying against his chest.

"Gale," I say miserably. "We got into an… argument." That's not nearly a strong enough word for what happened, but it's the closest equivalent.

"So you ran away to here?" he says doubtfully.

"I didn't run away, I…" That's exactly what I did. "I didn't know where else to go."

"What about your family, or friends or something?" He sounds uncomfortable asking this.

I immediately shake my head. "No, it'd all remind me of him. And he wouldn't stop trying to talk to me. He tried to talk me off the train before it left. I couldn't stay."

He's silent for a very long time. "He's not just your cousin, is he."

"No, he's not. He's my best friend, he's… everything. Our fathers died in the same mining explosion. And then after that, we learned to hunt together. We're partners, and…" I don't know how to put this, how to express these feelings in a way that makes sense, and I really don't care that I'm not making much sense. "…he's like what I think a brother would be, except he's too perfect."

"So what the hell did you argue about?" he asks, bemused.

"You, in a way," I admit, then quickly add, "But it isn't your fault. It was part of his big rant on how I don't belong there anymore. Gale's big on rants." I try to laugh, but it turns into a kind of sob.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. I get the feeling that he's not big on apologizing.

"It's fine, it's not your fault. It's Gale. He's an idiot," I finish with a groan, and sigh deeply. "I hate him, I really do, and I hate that I hate him."

"You argued about me and now you hate him?" he asks.

"No," I let go of him to wipe my eyes and face off. "It's really more of a longer story than that." I wait for a second, expecting him to offer we sit down, but I forgot that he isn't really big on social graces. "Can we sit or something?" I ask, trying not to be amused.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he agrees right away, but he hesitates, unsure of where to take me. So I end up leading him to the square couch. He sits stiffly, and I cross my legs so I can turn and look at him. "You don't have to tell me anything," he says, like he's given this concession a lot of thought.

"Do you not want me to?" I frown, unsure what he means.

"No, that's… I don't know. Not if you don't want to," he mumbles, scratching his head. "I'm really not clear on why you're here in the first place, so that's… that."

It occurs to me that I've been demanding. From his perspective, my actions are really weird; calling him up out of the blue, asking to come to his district with no warning, having him wait for me at the train station, take me home and then deal with me. And he's been nothing but supportive, agreeing to everything I ask without a second thought. The least he deserves is an explanation.

So I explain the best I can. "He got really weird and acted like I offended him, but all I did was get annoyed with him when he said I've changed. I mean, he lied about what my sister said to him and said I didn't belong here because I wouldn't talk to him about everything I was thinking. And then he yelled at me for not yelling at _you_ like that, but you never said those types of things. It's like he was trying to hurt me. I don't know what else he expected me to do, though, he was being such a… a _jerk_," I finish with feeling, crying harder.

Cato nods uncomfortably.

"I don't know. It doesn't sound that bad. But he just… he knows what I feel and he knows what to say. I just never thought he'd ever do anything like that," I say, hating how helpless Gale's making me feel, even when he's hours away.

He doesn't move for a second, almost like he's scared of what I'll do. Then he asks hesitantly, "So he made you leave?"

"No, he tried to stop me from leaving, actually. But he just wanted that so he could convince me to stop being mad at him."

"Why?" He seems completely baffled by this. "And how?"

I laugh once, trying not to be sad and remembering how talented he was at making me angry. "Because he was a jerk and he wants me to forget about it. And he's really good at saying exactly what I want him to, before I even know what that is."

"But I thought he was your best friend."

"He is. Or, was. I'm not sure anymore."

He nods slowly, trying to understand, but I know that he's not getting it. He's never had a friend like Gale. I really don't think anyone has. I don't know if I still do.

"Look," I say seriously, locking eyes with him. "He was just like me. I knew everything about him, how he moved and breathed and walked. We didn't even have to talk sometimes, we just knew what the other person meant. And then this…" I shrug helplessly and wipe tears off my face. "I couldn't stay anywhere near him."

"I don't know what you want me to do," he admits after a moment. "I'm pretty awful at making you feel better, so…"

I smile, but I can just feel that it looks grotesque. "Nothing, I don't want anything from you. I just wanted to get out of that place, I guess." I'm done crying and finally wipe my face dry. "I'm really sorry. I've been demanding."

"It's fine," he shakes his head.

"No, it isn't, though. I just came in here and didn't even think about if you had things going on yourself. I'm sorry, did you blow off some plans or something?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm… no."

"So what have you been doing all this time?" I ask, trying to be friendly and make up for my rampant sobbing and emotional neediness.

Cato gets very silent and still, and when I look at him, I can see his face is blank, blank the way it used to be, where it looks like he's planning on killing someone. "I don't know. Victor stuff," he mumbles. "And training."

"Like what stuff?"

He shakes his head. "Boring… nothing. Sometimes I go to the Capitol for a couple days. And now I get to train the tributes, so there's that." He doesn't sound very excited, though, and it occurs to me that I should be worried about him.

I'm such a terrible person. I've gotten so caught up in my own issues and temporary happiness that it didn't even occur to me that he could have problems. Now, it all comes rushing back – he said his district was going to hate him, for not bringing honor to the district or something. Oh no.

"How are people… do they think you're a real victor?" I ask, watching his face carefully to see how he reacts.

He frowns, shaking his head a fraction of an inch before freezing and saying, "Um, they're mostly leaving me alone. Since the… elevator thing."

Where we kissed. He's getting a reputation boost by association. "Oh. That's… good. What about your family, have you seen them? How are they?"

"They're… good. Happy I won, so that's a good thing." If I didn't know him better, I'd think he sounded almost bitter. "They got a bigger apartment, which still isn't big enough, but they like it more than the other one, so."

"And they're happy you're alive, right?"

He hesitates. "Yeah, of course."

It's not very convincing. "Sorry. I'll stop, I'm being so nosy. It's none of my business."

"Nah, it was just a question," he shrugs, but he's tense.

Neither of us is good with words. I should know this by now. "Ah," is all I say in response.

"So do you want to sleep or something?" he asks after a second.

"Uh, yeah, do you…" I don't know what to say.

"You can have the bed," he says without hesitation.

"What about you?"

"I'll take the couch. Really," he adds when I start to argue.

I argue anyways. "No, you don't have to do that. This is your place, I'll take the couch."

"No," he says determinedly.

"Are you telling me what to do?" I say, not sure if I'm offended, amused, or both.

He pauses for a moment of thought. "Yes," he decides.

"Um, no," I say just as decidedly. "You don't tell me what to do."

We stare at each other for a minute, and I'm not sure which of us is smiling first, but then we're both smirking at each other competitively. Before I can react, he leans forward and grabs me, one arm around my waist. He stands up, hauling me up with him, and begins to attempt to carry me towards the bedroom.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand, not struggling. It's kind of impressive and very unnerving how easily he can lift me with just one arm.

"Taking you to go sleep in the bed so I can sleep on the couch."

At least he doesn't lie. "Don't be ridiculous," I snort. "Put me down."

"Okay." He doesn't. Not until we're in his bedroom. Then, he deposits me on the bed and turns to go.

"Wait," I say, stretching up and grabbing the first part of him that I can reach – the hood of his sweatshirt. He doesn't try to resist, letting me pull him down onto the bed next to me.

"What," he says, leaning back on his elbows and looking at me expectantly.

"You're a really great guy," I say. "And I can't thank you enough for everything."

"It's really not a big deal," he shakes his head.

"It is, though. I want to make it up to you," I say, very seriously.

That seems to make him uncomfortable. "We can talk about it later," he says, getting up. He crosses his arms and looks at me for a second, looking like he's about to say something, but walks out without another word, closing the door behind him.

I consider going after him, but my tiredness wins out. Plus, I'm really not too interested in being carried under his arm again, so I stay in here. There's a bathroom connected to this bedroom, and I'm beginning to realize that my clothes are disgusting and covered with a combination of dirt, flour, dried sweat, and I'm not sure what else.

So after a brief moment of though where I think about if it would be gross or not, I use his shower. It's got considerably fewer knobs than the one in the Capitol, which is a relief. I use soap that smells kind of musky yet vaguely floral.

There is one problem, though. While he's got the button that dries off my body, for some reason, he's missing the hair one, so my hair stays damp. Whatever.

I'm able to brush off my pants and put them back on, but my shirt smells disgusting, so I put on one of Cato's shirts, which is comically over-sized – it goes down to my knees. But I really don't care right now; I just really want to sleep. I comb through my hair with my fingers, wring it out, and decide that's good enough. Then, I fold up the other clothes and stash the Mockingjay pin in the pocket of my father's leather jacket. I'm putting them on a chair when there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," I say loudly, and Cato opens the door. "What's up?"

"Uh." He doesn't say anything for a second, and I turn. He's almost staring at me, except that he immediately stops when I look at him. "I just was going to get a blanket," he says hastily. "And one of those pillows. If that's okay."

"Sure, that's fine." I throw a pillow at him, followed by a balled-up blanket, and he catches both, but he seems somewhat dazed. "Is something wrong?" I ask, sitting on the bed.

"No, it's fine." He pauses. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I say wearily.

He stands there for a second, then nods. "Do you want the door closed, or…"

"Whatever, either one's fine." I shrug.

So he leaves it partially open and I can hear him walking back into the living room. I don't lie down right away, though. I pull my knees up to my chest and lean my chin on them. It's been a crazy day. I still don't know how I feel about everything, so I try to work some of that out. I'm sad because of Gale, hurt and betrayed by him, but not so badly that I can't still be pissed off at him.

And then about Cato, I'm unbelievably grateful towards him. I thought he was a brutal killer, but he's coming through for me in the most spectacular ways. He's taking care of me. I'm starting to think that he's the best friend I've got right now, and I'm not sure if that's good or really sad.

Eventually, I fall sleep, wrapped up in the blankets, head on the pillow, but I'm still uneasy. That carries over to my dreams – I have one of the worst nightmares I've ever had. Gale's there, yelling at me all those things that he said before and more. And then he appears in the arena, running with the Careers, taking Cato's place. Except Gale can climb trees.

He kills Peeta, slashing his throat with Cato's sword. In the tree, I scream. My throat feels raw, the tears on my face hot and wet in a way that can only be real. This is real. This is happening. Peeta's dead. And now Gale's halfway up to me, murder in his eyes.

"Gale, Gale stop," I say, trying to sound calm, but it's hard because my arms won't work and I can't get any higher up. "What do you think you're doing? Don't do this. Don't. Gale, please don't."

He's not listening. He's just climbing up higher, almost within arms' reach, and I _know_ he's going to kill me when he's close enough.

And I'm crying. "Gale, stop, don't do this to me. I love you, Gale, don't. Gale. Don't." I'm barely coherent now. I don't even care that I'm going to die in a really undignified way, I just can't accept the fact that my best friend is about to murder me.

He leans in close to me and says, "Face it, Catnip. You're just like me." Somehow, his face turns into Cato's while he says that, and then he raises the sword. I close my eyes.

And then I'm sitting up in bed, screaming, and there's strong hands on my shoulders and Cato's right in front of me again, which only terrifies me more. "Katniss," he says, and I can see in his eyes that he's scared.

That's what breaks me out of my dream. It's not Gale-Cato sitting on the bed with me, it's just Cato. I'm in his apartment, in his bed. I just had a nightmare. Peeta's still really dead. And I am crying.

I don't think about what I do next – just do it. I lean into him and let him hold me as I shake uncontrollably and cry, in a way that somehow feels natural. He doesn't say a thing, even though I'm crying for a ridiculously long time. And that's weird, because I'm used to people trying to calm me down after my nightmares. Somehow, though, this is just as good.

After my tears have stopped, he stays here with me, sitting with his arms around me like he would do this forever. "Do you want me to leave?" he asks after a little while.

"No."

"Okay." He doesn't move. "You want to try to sleep?"

"I won't be able to."

"You might." I don't argue with him, enjoying the strong reality of him holding me. So he moves both of us, lying me down in the bed and inching away.

"No," I murmur, reaching out for him in a panic.

"Okay, okay." He comes back, sitting next to me on the bed, and I think he's scared to get too close. "Sleep," he says reassuringly. "I'll be right here."

So I do. I fall back asleep and dream about a pack of mutations with Gale's face, chasing me, but someone who looks a lot like both Peeta and Cato fights them off, so I don't wake up in terror again. My eyes just fly open, and I lie there for a second, completely still. Then, everything comes back to me.

Peeta's dead. Gale hates me. I'm in Cato's bedroom, with him next to–

He's not next to me. Where is he?

I stand up, crossing my arms nervously, and walk out into the hall. The apartment is quiet and dark, even though I'm pretty sure it's the morning already. The walls are all blue and bare, and the whole place really looks really bare and impersonal.

And there, on the couch, is Cato, asleep. The blanket and pillow are on the floor and he's sleeping in his clothes, his shoes are on the floor next to the couch. This is the second time I've seen him sleeping. Again, he looks innocent, peaceful, and I've just decided not to wake him up when I accidentally brush his leg and he jerks awake.

"Sorry," I say softly.

"It's fine. What time is it? Did you have another nightmare?" he asks, sitting up and looking at me with worry.

"No, I'm… fine. Why'd you leave?"

"Just…" he shrugs. "You were asleep. I didn't want to… I didn't know if you wanted me to be there. That's all." He glances up at me. "Are you okay?"

"Absolutely. I'm fine. Sorry I freaked out in the middle of the night," I say, half-smiling.

"It's fine. Was that one of the dreams about your father?" he asks hesitantly.

"No. Gale was just being an asshole, even in my dreams. Tried to kill me. Nothing major." I shrug, trying to blow it off. "So what do you want to do? Did you have plans or something?"

"Uh, no. I was going to… probably train, and go see what my parents want. They called yesterday, I'm supposed to go over there."

"So your mom's talking to you now?" I ask, remembering what he said.

"Uhhhh… yeah. More than before, at least," he says awkwardly. "And she lets me see my little brother and sister. Which is good."

"Is it okay if I come with you?" I suggest.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees immediately. "Everybody here thinks we're… together. So yeah, that would probably be a good idea."

"Oh, right. Of course," I say hastily, because he looks spectacularly uncomfortable. "That's fine, we agreed on that. So let's go, then. Although I have to borrow some clothes. Is that okay?" I check, tactfully not bringing up the fact that I'm currently wearing his shirt.

"Yeah, sure, you can change in my room first if you want, or after I do or something."

I nod, so he goes into the bedroom and I sit on the couch to wait patiently. He's not in there for long, coming back out in another T-shirt, hoodie, and sturdy pants. "Go ahead," he says, jerking his thumb towards the bedroom and going into the kitchen.

So I go into the bedroom and shut the door, then attempt to have his closet put out clothes even vaguely my size. Eventually, I get a tank top made out of a shimmery dark grey material, which works well under my dad's leather jacket. I leave my hair down, just so I'm not wearing my normal braid, though I'm not positive that it looks good.

Combing my fingers through the long strands, I walk out to the kitchen. "Does this look okay?" I ask Cato, wrinkling my nose.

He hands me a bowl of lamb stew and a couple puffy rolls, then looks at my hair for a second. "Yeah. Leave it like that."

I shrug. "Whatever. Thanks." I begin shoveling food in my mouth, starving as usual. Cato eats some terrible healthy stuff, fruits and rich puddings full of nutrients or whatever, and then we leave. He locks the door behind us with the key from around his neck and tucks it back into his shirt.

"So where does your family live?" I ask as we go towards the elevator.

"Downtown," he says. "They moved there before I even got home, actually."

The more I hear about his family, the more I realize Cato might have grown up in a worse environment than I did. At least my family and friends were honestly worried about me. They never even _tried_ to use me the way it sounds like his family does. "Cool," is all I say, and I follow him into the town.

"We should probably hold hands," he suggests casually as we leave the building.

Right, because of the "in love" part. I grab his hand and walk close to him, partially for the reporters starting to swarm us, partially because I'm nervous, and then a tiny other part because I like holding his hand. It's a pretty nice hand to hold, as far as hands go. And the guy attached to it isn't that bad, either.

We gather a pretty nice-sized crowd on our way to Cato's family's place, with people attempting to ask us questions and both of us mostly ignoring it. Finally, Cato gives them a few answers. He says we did, in fact, spend the night together, that we are happy to see each other again, and that he will be visiting my district later on.

I don't argue with any of it. He knows what he's doing, I'm sure, and there's not much more I'm won't agree to. Especially with him, whom I trust more than almost anyone else – maybe more than anyone else ever, now that Gale and I are… whatever we are. And I'm not going to say a thing to anybody, nothing that Gale could gather any information from if he sees it on TV. He's not going to know a thing about me before I know it. Not anymore.

We walk up to a very large building with shiny plate-glass windows and ornate architecture. "They've got the whole top floor," he murmurs to me as we walk inside to the gaudy lobby. There's lots of huge screens, Avox everywhere, and plush couches. A guard stands at the elevator doors, looking very impressive and scary. He lets Cato through, though, and then me, after Cato explains I'm his co-victor.

"My little brother and sister have been dying to meet you," he says on the way up.

"That's so sweet," I say, flattered. "How old are they?"

"Silas is nine. Sophia's eleven. Be prepared for them to jump on you."

At first, I don't think he means literally. Then the elevator doors open and we step out into an almost obscenely luxurious apartment. "Hello?" Cato calls out gruffly.

I hear a rustle and swish, and then a small shape hurtles past me. I follow it with my eyes, and there's this little wisp of a girl with her thin arms around Cato's neck. "You're dead," she says smugly, her voice high like Prim's.

"Don't know how I made it in the arena," Cato says sarcastically, but he's got this small smile on his face that I've never seen from him before. Gentle, and sweet. And he lets her stay there, piggy-back style. "You're getting strong," he observes.

"I've been training a lot," she says, proud.

"I can tell. Where's Silas?" he asks, bending back so she can drop down.

"Right here," another voice says softly, and then there's a tiny tow-headed boy standing in front of us like he's been there all along. I'd say he was hiding behind something, but I'm not sure what, especially given that the floor around him is bare.

"Hey buddy," Cato says carefully, like he'll scare him off. "This is Katniss. She's-"

"Your girlfriend. We know," Sophia rolls her eyes. "Just don't be gross around me." She looks at me suspiciously, and I get the feeling she's judging me. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" she asks me in a very businesslike manner.

"My father taught me. Why, do you want some tips?" I ask on a hunch.

She frowns at me, suspicious of a trap. "Why would you do that?"

"Because she's nice," Cato speaks up. "Just say yes or no, Sophia. Simple question."

"Okay. Yes," she decides after a moment. "Right now?"

Silas interrupts before I can answer. "You're really quiet," he says to me, looking at me with enormous dark blue eyes that are almost black.

"So are you," I say, giving him a lopsided smile. I'm much better at dealing with kids like this, the more shy ones. "Where'd you learn that?"

He shrugs, then comes towards me and stands less than a foot away from me, looking up at me thoughtfully. "You weren't supposed to win," he says.

His tone is so friendly that I'm caught off-guard by the actual substance of what he said. "I know," I say to stall. "But sometimes things don't happen the way they're supposed to."

Silas nods.

"Is that you, Cato?" a man yells from somewhere else in the apartment, and all three siblings start in exactly the same way. And I thought I was jumpy.

"Yeah, Leo," Cato answers after a second, and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitch as he clenches it. Sophia stands a little straighter, and Silas looks like he's about to melt into the floor. I might not even be surprised if he did. However, I am surprised when he comes and sort of stands behind me. I feel his small hand on my back.

There's not much time to register this development, because a very large man in a very red suit is walking towards us, weaving around the overly fancy furniture with little grace. He's got the same hard jaw as Cato, the same blonde hair, but with an impressive beard and about thirty or so years of aging in his face. Instantly, the hard look in his eyes makes me distrustful of him.

"And is this the girl we owe so much to?" he says in a tone which I'm sure is meant to be genial but is just vaguely frightening coming from his huge frame.

It takes a second to realize he's talking about me. "Oh, you don't owe me anything," I start to say, because they don't. If anything, they owe it to Cato.

"Course we do," he says jovially, coming to stand a few feet from me, between Cato and Sophia with his hands on his hips. "Without you, this idiot over here would've been a goner. I'd love to know what was going on in your head."

I almost attempt a laugh, before it registers that he's being serious and wants to know. "I was just tired of all the killing," I say. "I didn't train for this. I wasn't prepared as Cato was."

"Clearly, he wasn't prepared, either," Cato's father snorts, reaching forward and slapping him on the shoulder in a manly way. Maybe it's just me, but I think Sophia flinches, and I know for a fact that Cato stiffens, that Silas's hand on me twitches.

"Oh, he was," I say instantly, defensive instinct kicking in. "He should've won. Everything that happened to me was luck. He's got the skill part."

The polite thing to do at this point is say I'm wrong, that I deserved to win and that his son definitely is skilled. But rather than that, his father just hems and haws. "Well…" he says, squinting, then changes the subject. Leaning in towards Cato, he whispers something, but it's definitely audible. "Don't waste a lot of money on this one. She's got her own."

I glance at Cato for his reaction. His face is completely blank and smooth as he looks at his father and nods once, tightly.

"Nice to meet you," Cato's dad says to me, then turns around and disappears back into the bowels of the apartment.

There's complete silence after he walks away, during which I realize that my free arm got around Silas' shoulders at some point and that Cato's grip on my hand has tightened.

I feel like it's my duty to break the silence. "Nice guy," I say, with barely any hint of sarcasm, which I'm very proud of.

Cato catches it, of course, and throws me an exasperated yet amused look. Sophia narrows her eyes at me, not sure how to take that. The whole thing seems to go over Silas' head; he just stands there and regards us all with his huge eyes.

"We can leave in a second," Cato says to me. "I just have to go ask my mother why she told me to come over."

"Can I meet her?" I ask, because I'm curious about this woman who didn't speak to her son when she thought he was a waste of her time.

He sighs and rolls his eyes, like he should've expected this. "If you really want to."

I do. So he leads me through the apartment, Silas and Sophia trailing behind us. "She's… not very nice sometimes," he mutters to me, and when I look at his face, he's worried.

"Hey. Don't worry about it. I could handle Enobaria," I remind him.

"Two completely different types of not nice," he says in an undertone, and if I knew him better, I think I'd know that he's nervous. "Don't smile," he warns, and lets go of my hand.

"Okay…" I say slowly, rubbing my palms on my pants nervously and trying not to let myself be scared by him. It's not like I have to hold his hand. I'll be fine. I can handle whatever's about to happen. I know that. Anything strangers throw at me I can take. This is maybe the best distraction ever for me.

He leads us into a large room with fabric everywhere, in swaths and swatches, sewn or half-sewn into decadent clothes. An Avox stands with her arms full of material, and a woman stands in front of a floor-length mirror, trying on a deep purple ball gown crusted with jewels and glitter.

She doesn't acknowledge our presence for at least several minutes while she twists and turns and examines herself in the mirror. Sophia stands in front of us, arms crossed but silent, and Silas takes up his place behind me again. Cato seems content to wait for her to talk first, so I keep my mouth shut and wait.

Finally, she speaks. "Do you think this dress makes me look pale?" she pouts at herself in the mirror, looking at herself over one shoulder. When none of us answer, she turns to us, striking a pose that's supposed to be both impressive and unintentional-looking.

It's clear that she was very beautiful when she was younger. But now, her long blonde hair is streaked through with grey, her porcelain skin is wrinkled and almost papery-looking. I'm barely reminded of my mother, which I quickly deny.

"You were well-dressed," she says to me. "What do you think?"

"Oh, I didn't make any of those decisions," I say after a second. "Sorry. I'm really bad at that fashion-type things." Truth, but even I can tell that dark of a purple doesn't look good with her light hair and skin. But I'm not going to be the one to say that.

She seems annoyed with me, but only mildly. Her reflection is far too preoccupying. "I think it's too red," she says absently, catching the corner of her own eye and smiling. "Too red," she decides, then turns to us for good. "What are you doing here?"

"You told me to come over," Cato says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Get them out of my hair," she says, motioning at the other two children restlessly. "They should be training, anyway. Your winnings aren't nearly what they should be. Just look at the size of this apartment."

I think she's saying it's too small, but that can't be right. This place is massive. And the victor's salary is huge, too. She must be joking. "No, Mom," Cato protests. "They don't need to train. They're not going to volunteer."

"Yes, I am," Sophia says defiantly. "I'm going to volunteer and win, just like you."

"Shut up," their mother says, then walks over to us with a swishing skirt. It's obvious she thinks she looks very striking. She stands in front of Cato, staring at him, then takes his chin in her hand, staring at him. "What do you mean, they won't volunteer?" she demands. "Are you going to stop them?"

He doesn't say anything for a second. I'm trying not to look at him, out of sympathetic embarrassment, so I'm not sure how he feels about this. "I won already," he forces out. "You don't need them to. Alright?"

She stares at him for a second, then smiles in a very cat-like way. Any resemblance that I may've thought she and Cato had is gone in that moment, because she looks completely different than him. "You did win," she concedes. "But you didn't win enough. We're used to a certain… lifestyle. We have class. I don't expect you to understand that. But I do expect you to give us what we deserve, for supporting you for your entire life. Your winnings, they were a good start. But it's not enough. Got it?" Her tone hardens for those last two words, and I can feel myself flushing.

Silas cringes into me, his hand finding mine, and that gives me some degree of distraction from the humiliation happening right next to me. I squeeze his small hand, glance down at him and see his eyes are blank, his face tight and scared. Sophia still has the same cocky stance as before, but something in her shoulders betrays tension.

"Yes," Cato says tightly, but I don't think for a second that he's giving in that easily.

"So take them to train," she orders patiently. "Okay?"

"Fine."

She finally lets go of him, and to his credit, Cato doesn't even blink. Then, she turns back to the mirror, walks away, and it's clear, she's back in her own self-absorbed world.

Time to go. I herd the littler kids in front of me out of the room – big sister instinct, I guess – and look back to make sure Cato's following us. He is, of course, though the look on his face is kind of terrifying. "Shoes," he says shortly to his siblings, and they run off without complaint. Then he looks at me with a strange, ashamed look in his eyes.

"Different kind of not nice," I say. "For sure."

He nods, biting his lip. "Hate me yet?" he asks after a second.

"Why would I?"

"Because I haven't saved her."

His little sister. "No, I don't hate you," I say softly. "You did everything you could." I hesitate, because I'm not sure if I can say this, but then I throw caution to the wind and just say it. "She seems pretty crazy. You can't fix that."

He looks up at me, almost hopefully. "You really think that?"

"Absolutely. Besides, you're a victor. If you really want to figure out something to do, you can do it. But in the meantime, you should get them into training. Just in case. So they're prepared." I hate that I live in a world where this type of thinking is necessary, but I'll do it.

He nods again, and we move in towards each other simultaneously, hugging each other tightly, quickly. For a second, I can feel fear from him, leeching into me, and a little of mine leaking into him.

And then his little sister is looking at us with disapproving suspicion. "I said no gross stuff," she says, deeply offended.

We break apart, and Cato hits the back of her head, not hard but in a more playful way. "Don't be stupid," he says to her. "Where's Silas?"

I can see him, sneaking up on Cato on silent feet, but I don't say anything. He successfully gets right behind him and tugs on his sleeve, then jumps away just in time to miss Cato's strike at him. This makes Silas grin broadly, thrilled, and he darts around Cato toward the door. "Come on, slowpokes," he says with a patronizing little smirk that makes him look just like his older brother.

"Where the hell did your family get him?" I ask as we follow him out of the apartment.

Sophia snorts. "Mom says somebody switched the babies in the hospital."

Cato shoves her. "Don't say that. She was just being a bitch," he mutters as the elevator doors close. "He's just not like us, though. He's more like you," he says to me.

"No, I'm more like her," Sophia says, glaring at her older brother. "Because I'm going to do whatever it takes to win the games."

"I'm not… I didn't do whatever it took," I say before she can get any further. "I did whatever I could live with. Living with honor and glory or whatever is great, but only if you can live with yourself, too."

Maybe that advice is a little abstract for an eleven year old – she frowns and kind of snorts dismissively – but I hope she remembers it later, if she has to. Silas, though, he looks up at me like that makes sense. His hand is still in mine, which I don't mind at all. He makes me almost I wish I had a little brother.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: Alright, so you guys have been spectacular. We got several more recruits to the good ship Kato/Catoniss, and all of your complements made me very hormonal/emotional. I am hungry. Also, I am tired. So individual replies aren't going to be here. Either I'll combine answers next time, or I'll just skip some, and I'm super sorry, but I'm only human, and I didn't think it was fair to keep delaying this chapter when I have it written. **

**I love you all. **

**A few questions I'll answer: **

"**When's Cato's next chapter?" – not exactly sure. He'll have his voice, but I don't know if he needs a whole chapter right now. Katniss is the true narrator, so I'm going to get as much of the story told through her.**

"**Don't hate on Gale too much!/YES I HATE GALE." – so basically I get both ends of the spectrum here, and I'm trying to play it down the middle. I personally don't like Gale, but I can see where he's coming from. He's going to get at least a kind of happy ending, bud not happier than Katniss/Cato's.**

"**I don't often review but****…****" – for all of you who've gone out of your way to tell me you like it, or to update soon, or anything like that, I really do appreciate it. Thanks so much! Come back soon and let me know your thoughts!**

**Special s/o to MsCassity and Jawsome, whose reviews are basically word documents devoted to making me blush and/or make strange noises in the back of my throat from trying not to laugh/cry. **

**Another special s/o to EVERYONE – can't believe you've taken the time to read 15 chapters of this thing and for a quarter of you, review it weekly. **

**Yet another special s/o to my Tumblr buddies from here! If you haven't yet, feel free to check me out. Same username and everything! (I also now have a Lisbeth Salander appreciation blog, linked to on my main one, so if that's your thing****…**** check it out.)**

**Until next time!**


	17. Chapter 16

The training facility is nearby, so it's not that long of a walk. Right inside the doors, there's a place to take off our shoes and put on special soft, flexible ones that are mold to our feet. I leave my jacket on; I'm not going to be doing much. Cato keeps his hoodie on, too, and the other two are already dressed in skin-tight clothes that look stretchy.

The three of them know where they're going, so I follow them into what appears to be the main training room. It's several stories high, with openings in the walls that are either sort of observation decks or doorways to other training rooms.

Immediately, Sophia leaps away into the large, complicated maze of netting and bars that sprawls over about the quarter of the room. Silas sticks by my side, and Cato takes me over to the target range. "Show them what you can do," he whispers. People are already staring at me, whispering to each other about who I am. "Make them respect you."

"Don't they already?" I say playfully, sauntering across the room with him. Confidence is easy to fake with him next to me.

"Yeah, yeah they do. But more never hurts."

He's looking out for me again, keeping my public image up. How can I say no to that? Plus, it's very tempting to have this chance, to show his siblings and all those other tributes who think twelve's kid are useless exactly what we can do.

"Are you going to throw for me?" I ask.

He points at a dude standing by some kind of machine. "Joss will." He hands me a black bow that seems to be made out of a type of metal, but it's more flexible than that. I take the quiver of arrows he offers me and sling it on my back, fire an experimental shot into a target directly in front of me.

Bull's-eye. This bow feels just like my father's, same spring, same tension in the string. I'm pretty sure he chose this one on purpose, which is impressive and crazy. But I won't question that right now.

I nod at Joss before I have the chance to get nervous about the fact that every tribute has stopped training to watch me. "Go," I say, and he pushes a few buttons. A shape shoots out of the machine. Without thinking, I aim and shoot. The fake bird drops out of the sky, shot through where the eye would be.

A good shot, but not nearly impressive enough for this district of killers. After a few more birds, Joss seems to catch on and ups it to two at a time. I get both of them every time, three times in a row, and then he turns it up to three.

We continue it this way for several minutes, until he's sending six up at a time and I still hit every one straight through the eye before they fall, about a dozen times in a row.

Joss is openly grinning at me – I guess he appreciates an archer. Cato looks much more subtly proud, crossing his arms and jutting his chin out, practically daring someone to challenge me now. "More," I prompt. I think I can handle it.

"That's as high as the machine goes," Joss is happy to tell me.

"Sophia." I look around for her – she hurtles towards me, suddenly proud to know me. "Throw one up with the others. Can you do that?"

Of course she can. She nods and throws a fake bird up at the exact right time, right into the middle of the ones shot out of the machine, perfectly, so it's easy to hit every single one of them right through the middle.

A trainer sidles up to Cato. I hear him whisper, "Did you know she could shoot like this?"

Seven more birds shoot up into the air. Seven fall to the ground, shot through. I'm half-listening for the answer from Cato. Finally, he says, "I knew she could shoot. Not like this, though. This is the first time I've really seen her go for it."

The trainer's voice gets quieter. "Nobody from the district can do this."

"Probably why she won," Cato points out.

I'm out of arrows now, so I lower the bow and look around to find literally everyone staring at me. I'm not sure what to do, but then they all start clapping, grudgingly impressed. I'm not sure what I should do, so I go with my instinct – I do half a curtsey, hand the bow back to Cato, who takes it, looking very smug. "Thanks for the throwing, there," I say to Sophia. "That was good."

She smiles for possibly the first time since I've met her. "Will you really teach me to shoot?" she asks, now interested.

"Um, yeah, sure. As much as I can. A lot of it's just instinct," I mumble uncomfortably, looking at the people all around and wondering if it's legal for me to do that. There seems to be a lot of rules around here that I don't know about. "Can I do that?" I ask to nobody in general.

"Do you want to teach a class?" one of the older-looking kids asks.

I don't know what that means. "Sure."

"Right now?" the girl sounds surprised.

"Absolutely." I straighten my shoulders. "Are people interested in that, though?"

That's apparently a funny question. "Who wants to be in this class?" Cato asks the room.

Almost every hand in the entire room goes up. Even the trainers. I'm taken completely off-guard by this universal endorsement, and I'm sure it shows on my face. "Oh," I say. "Okay. Well I'm going to be here for a couple days. I could do more than one. Do I start this now?"

It's pretty obvious that I know nothing about this, so someone steps forward to help me – an older-looking woman with steel-colored hair and a face like iron. She would've terrified me before the games, since I'm positive she's killed, probably at least a few kids from my district. But things have changed. She's not my enemy right now.

Swiftly, she takes charge of the situation, sorting the tributes into groups while I try not to feel sick that I'm teaching them to kill better. They're not going to kill more if I do this. The same amount of children will die. I'm not a bad person for doing this.

"No cameras," I blurt, looking around the room. "No reporters at all." The last thing I need is for word of this to get back home.

Obediently, every single person who isn't a tribute or a trainer leaves, but that still leaves several hundred kids in the room, others looking in on the room from balconies or other places. The iron-faced lady splits the kids up by age, I think, organizing the oldest hundred or so into rows and ordering the whole group of us down a hall.

Cato stays in the main room. "I'll be here when you come back," he assures me. So I go.

She takes us into a long room with about twenty-five targets down the wall, lines them up, four or five to a target, and hands out bows. "Stance," the woman barks at them, and the first person in each line raises the bow like they're about to shoot.

None of them are archers. That skill wasn't very emphasized before now, I know that for a fact. Glimmer couldn't shoot to save her life. I guess my winning changed all that. That's why I'm here, looking at these kids who are trying to draw a bow back with the wrong hand, or standing wrong, or with the bow upside down.

"Do you guys know what your dominant eyes are?" I ask. Everybody nods, slightly confused. "Alright. Hold your bows in your weaker hands. Turn so your strong side is forward," I say. "Like this." I turn to my left, lift an imaginary bow, and squint. They all mimic my movements, some of them switching sides so they're facing the right way.

A few minutes in, I realize I'm teaching some kids who are almost two years older than me. All of them are at least my age, and it's so weird to think that I know more than them. But I do. So I teach them about how to hold the bow, how to stand, how to correctly put an arrow on the string.

There's a lot more that goes into my shooting than I knew, a fact that I only discover after I see how many mistakes they make. Like I didn't realize there was a wrong way to hold the arrow, but there definitely is.

As I work my way down the line, I realize that Silas sneaked into the room and is observing the session very intently. "Do you want a bow?" I ask him, seeing that his hands are empty.

"No," he shakes his head. "I'm just watching."

So I move on. The careers all catch on fast, to their credit, and by the end of a few hours, they're all hitting at least near the bull's-eye pretty consistently. "I think… I think that's it for now," I finally say. This whole training thing is pretty exhausting, more than I thought it'd be. The instant I say I want to stop, though, all of the kids obediently put down the bows and leave. It's weird, but I'm not gonna complain.

Silas stays with me, though, weaving through the crowd easily, like they're not even there. "Did I do a good job?" I ask him, just to ask somebody.

"Yeah," he nods seriously. "But what if your sister gets picked and you just taught them to kill her better?"

I don't know why this occurred to him, or why it hasn't occurred to me. "If she gets picked again then I'm volunteering again," I say without hesitation. "She's not going in the arena." But even though I'm completely sure this is what I'd do, I still feel a ball of cold fear, deep in my gut. I hadn't even thought about that.

"Why?" he frowns.

"Because she's my sister." Quickly, I realize that's not enough of an explanation. Family doesn't mean the same thing here that it does back at home. So I add, "She's not going to get hurt. I'm going to stop that or die trying."

"But it's an honor to get chosen for the games," he says.

"Not everywhere. You know the kids from my district usually die. So getting chosen is pretty much a death sentence. And I'm not going to let her die."

Either I'm completely confusing him, or I'm blowing his mind. I can't tell which from the way he's staring at me, a million thoughts racing behind his deep blue eyes. "Oh," is all he finally says.

"Let's go find your brother," I say after a long silence. And Silas nods, so we leave the room and walk back down the hall and into the main training room.

Cato's sparring with some tribute in training that's almost as big as he is, throwing punches and kicks with impressive speed for someone their size. His hoodie is on the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing impressively. From a purely objective standpoint, I mean. Silas and I enter the room pretty quietly, so we watch for a little while as they do their best to hurt each other without actually landing any blows. At several points, it seems like Cato could finish him off with the right move, but he doesn't try, keeps it going longer than necessary before finishing him off and pinning him to the mat.

There's no applause for him winning. I guess it's expected. It feels weird to me, though, but I don't comment on it. Instead, I pick up his hoodie and walk over to him with Silas. Cato shirt isn't even a little damp with sweat, though his forehead is a bit shiny. "Nice work," I say, throwing him the jacket.

He folds it under his arm. "Thanks," he says, then adds in an undertone, "Just about the only thing I'm good for these days."

"Stop it. Don't be like that," I say unhappily.

"I was kidding," he claims after a second, but I don't believe him, and I don't think Silas does, either. "How'd your lesson go?" he asks before we can call him on it.

"Went good. They're fast learners."

"You should teach me to shoot sometime," he suggests.

"What, a private lesson?" I say skeptically in a way that wasn't meant to be flirty but ends up being just that.

He regards me, slightly surprised. "Yeah. Sure," he says after a second. "Whatever you want." We stand there together, awkwardly, and I get the feeling that both of us don't really know how to do this.

"Should I go away?" Silas asks. He's so quiet I forgot he was there.

"No," I tell him. "No, it's fine. So do you want to…"

I don't get any farther than that because I notice Cato's arms – bare for the first time since I got here. There's a bunch of new scarring on his skin, marks that I'm sure weren't there before, back in the Capitol. He sees the look on my face, where I'm looking, and then instantly tries to cover his arms with the hoodie. It's too late, though.

"Hey, um, can we talk about that thing?" he says to me, insistently, quietly.

I'm about to argue with him, cause a scene about the whole thing right here in public, but the look on his face stops me, reminds me that his little brother and sister are both in the room. He wants to have this conversation in private.

"Sure," I say. "That… thing. Yep. Let's…" I give up on words and let him pull me away, double-checking behind us to make sure Silas isn't following us.

He's got a face like a thundercloud, dark and threatening, but his grip on my hand stays gentle and he doesn't say a thing until we're alone in some kind of storage room, filled with various types of lethal-looking weaponry. I close the door and turn to him. "What happened to you?" I demand.

"Nothing," he says.

"Good. The bullshit answer's out of the way. Tell me what happened," I repeat, staring at him insistently. My eyes don't leave his face, so I catch the tiny flicker across his face, something like fear but more like exhaustion.

And then it's like that was the first crack in his armor that's now splintering apart. His blank expression practically falls apart, and then he closes his eyes. "I can't tell you," he says heavily, his tone devoid of all emotion.

He expects me to be angry, so I remain calm. "Alright. Why's that?" I ask. Calmly.

"Long story. Can't tell you that, either," he says, crossing his arms tighter and hunching his shoulders. There's a long silence where I try to figure out what to say in response. "Hate me yet?" he asks timidly.

"No. No, I don't," I say, softening, because he's just so sad sounding. "You've gotta stop asking that. I'm not just going to randomly hate you because of something stupid. Alright?"

"Okay."

"Can I at least see them?" I ask after a second, and I'm not just asking to be obnoxious. I'm legitimately asking, because I'm worried about him.

He doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no. All he does is look at the ground.

I take several small, slow steps towards him, until I'm less than a foot away, but he's still avoiding my eyes. Whatever. I don't need him to look at me.

Slowly, I pull the sweatshirt free from his arms, let it drop to the ground. He doesn't make any move to stop me. So then I unfold his arms, hold them both out straight towards me so I can see the whole length of them.

The scars look both better and worse up close in plain view – better because they're clean and smooth, white scar tissue over porcelain skin, because I can tell some of them are going to fade, at least, and worse because there's more of them than I initially thought. It's only been a little over a month. I don't know how he's gotten so many.

But they're there. Rough rings around his wrists, tiny crescent-shaped gouges everywhere that are fading up his arms and long scratches. His knuckles have thick layers of scars over them, almost like calluses. And then a long, jagged tear wraps around one forearm, curving down to the underside.

He hasn't moved yet, so I turn his hands palm up, so I can see the bottoms of both his arms. There are more of the longer scratches there, edges rough. Those scars almost are invisible against the almost translucent skin on the inside of his wrist and arm, but they're raised. Recent.

"Cato, what the hell happened?" I say very quietly.

He shakes his head kind of helplessly and doesn't answer. I want to know what's going on, but more than that, I want him to be okay. So I take his arms and put them around me, reaching behind myself to rest them on my hips, then reach up and put my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me. He leans down a little and I get on my tiptoes so my chin can fit over his broad shoulder.

At first, he doesn't hold me back, arms staying loose around my waist. And then he is holding me, his arms crushing into the small of my back and lifting me a few inches off the ground. His face is pressed into my shoulder.

I'd like this a lot more if I didn't know now that the strong arms around me are damaged, hurt by undoubtedly painful occurrences that I'm scared to think about. That kind of ruins the sense of security I usually get from him. "You've gotta tell me," I say.

"I'll never tell you," he says firmly.

"You have to," I repeat. "So I can put an arrow through the brain of whoever did it. They're going to die for doing this to you, whoever they are," I say fiercely, hot tears pricking at the back my eyes. "It's not just your arms, right?"

He has no response, except for his grip on me tightening.

"You can't honestly expect me to just be okay with this," I say as a last-ditch effort.

"I actually didn't think you'd care that much," he murmurs.

"That's just insulting," I say unhappily, glaring over his back at the wall. "I don't like it when my friends get hurt. I thought you knew that."

"So I'm one of your friends?"

I don't know when we crossed the line into friendship, but we're definitely there. At least there. "I'm living with you right now. What do you think," is all I say out loud.

He takes a very deep breath. "Oh," he says. "But I still won't tell you what happened."

"I'll live. For now," I say reluctantly. I pull backwards to look him in the eyes. "You owe me an explanation, though."

"Okay." He looks very serious, his eyes icy and cold.

His face is inches from mine, but I can't bring myself to back away. "Eventually," I insist, attempting to be firm. But I feel kind of weird, looking at him from so close. "You have to tell me eventually."

"I'm not making any promises," he says solemnly.

"Not one?" I raise my eyebrow, bluffing.

"Maybe one," he concedes.

And then he kisses me.

This kiss is different than our first, because I kind of see it coming. That scares me; I saw it coming, and I didn't stop it. I don't know what that means. I do know I trust him more than I did then, so I let myself close my eyes and get caught up in the moment, in the feeling of him so close against me.

But that's just for a second. Then I hear someone at the door behind us, a camera shutter clicking, and I get this terrible sinking feeling in my stomach that I've just been used.

I yank myself free of Cato's arms and turn to see who's at the door – it's a couple of tributes, one with a camera. I don't even need to wonder if that picture's going to be on television within the hour.

"You used me," I say, trying not to sound hurt and failing, stepping back from him.

"No, I didn't," he says immediately.

"You expect me to believe that you could see the door but you didn't see them?"

"No. But it's true. I was focused on you," he mumbles. "All I saw was you."

I don't know what to do. "Oh," I say faintly.

I stand there while he puts his hoodie back on, adjusts it, then puts his hands in his pocket. "Did you not want to kiss me?" he asks, and although his tone is gruff, something in it suggests vulnerability.

"I don't know." My turn to be embarrassed. "I guess I did," I finally say, honesty being the best policy and whatnot.

"Really?"

"I thought you were supposed to be tough," I say, crossing my arms restlessly. "Do you need so much reassurance? Yes, okay? Yes. Now can we just leave it alone?" Talking about emotions like this has never been in my comfort zone.

"Sure," he says, but he can't control his smile as we leave the storage room, and maybe my face isn't exactly expressionless either. We hold hands again as we walk back into the main room, and this time it feels like a secret between the two of us, the secret promise he just made to me in that storage room.

Sophia comes over to me, eager to show everyone that she knows me, even if she didn't come to the lesson, and starts talking, oblivious to the fact that I just kissed her brother, and that I wanted to. Silas makes his way over to us, too, and listens patiently to his sister's talking.

Eventually the two little kids decide they should keep training. I mention something about being hungry, so Cato takes me to the cafeteria while the kids go off to do something with spears. "Why can't they come with us?" I ask as we walk there. "Did they eat already?"

"No. Tributes in training only eat twice a day."

Again, I'm left mostly speechless. "Oh," I say. "That's…" There's no adjective to describe that appropriately, so I stop talking and focus on our hands, which are still connected. I pull him closer to me, I'm not really sure why, but I want him near me right now, while I figure out these strange things happening inside of me, because now I'm definitely having a lot of emotions, ones I don't have names for.

We get our food one-handed, both unwilling to let go of the other. I honestly don't even notice what's being spooned onto our trays. I'm busy being nonchalant, I guess. No word as to what he's too busy doing, and I'm too busy to ask. We sit down at a table across from each other, far from the few other tributes around us.

"Hi," he says, a gleam in his eyes that I'm not sure how I feel about.

"Is that the best pick-up line you've got?" I say skeptically, taking a drink.

"Haven't had much of a chance to practice. Do you want me to have good pick up lines?"

"Nah. I'm just being obnoxious. Sorry." I set my elbow on the table and offer him my hand. He takes it, and although he doesn't smile, he looks awfully content. I'd like to think that's because of me. "So this is your life?"

Instantly, his face hardens – I've said the wrong thing, as usual. "Pretty much," he nods. "Yep. Training. That's my life. Always has been."

"Are all you careers really so mopey?" I ask, frowning. "You just won the games. Give yourself some slack about figuring out hobbies." I start to eat, and so does he, kind of mirroring my movements.

"I don't have any, though. I don't even know what I'm good at," he sighs gloomily.

"Then we'll go to your home and get a bunch of stuff for you to try out. These problems aren't that big," I say, slightly exasperated. "I'm serious, we'll go do it."

"Okay."

Victorious, I put a bite of greenish paste into my mouth and immediately grimace. "What is this?" I spit out, very tempted to wipe off my tongue on my sleeve.

Cato shrugs, calmly shoveling it into his mouth. "It's not bad," he says.

"Sure," I agree. "Except that is horribly, spectacularly bad. Don't tell me – it's healthy."

"Okay."

"What the hell kind of answer is that?" I demand.

"Okay, I won't tell you," he says, evidently amused by my indignation. "Are you always so touchy?" he asks. I think he's teasing me.

"Always. Especially after traumatic events," I inform him.

"So this'll go away?" he says hopefully.

"You'll see, I guess."

He almost smiles at this, which makes me realize this means he's going to be around long enough to find out. Not that I object to that in particular, I just didn't think before I spoke. So we eat in silence for a while, hands still linked on the table.

"You wanted to kiss me," he says after a while, half to himself, and glances up at me.

He's not sensitive enough to ask what he wants to know – if we have a relationship, if this means we're more than just co-victors who respect each other now – but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve an answer. I just don't know if I'm sensitive enough to know what that answer is.

So my answer to him is initially just, "Yeah."

"Did _you_ know the camera was there?"

"No."

A long pause again. "And you don't hate me."

"Not even a little bit." Even though that makes me sound really weak and pathetic and forgiving. The paranoid part of me knows that I should never trust someone this much, that the last time I felt close to this sure about trusting someone, he tore out my heart and burned it. But I do trust him. I kissed him. That means something.

I should probably have figured that out before I showed up on his doorstep, so I don't end up leading him on and using him. The last thing I want is to give him some reason to hate me. He's my only real friend right now – well, who isn't related to me. I can't lose that.

"I don't hate you, either," he says very fast, out of nowhere.

I frown, almost, more like a smile. "Thank you… that's good." I know what he's trying to say but doesn't know how to. I understand him, which should scare me, but doesn't. And that should scare me. But all I feel right now is this strange warmness in my chest.

That feeling doesn't go away for the rest of the day, which we spend in the training center. He holds onto me especially tight when other tribute boys are near, even though it's always strictly business. I call him out on it after it happens a couple times.

"What are you doing?" I ask, trying not to smile. "Scared I'll make new friends?"

"No. I know how their minds work," he says darkly. "They respect your fighting. But they'll still take advantage of you if they have a chance."

"Yeah?"

"It's what I would've done. Y'know, before," he tacks on. The look he gives me makes it pretty obvious that he knows that was the wrong thing to say, but for some reason, it doesn't bother me as much. "I won't do that now," he adds, checking my face to make sure I buy it.

I nod. "Okay, I believe you. Don't freak out." Then I throw him a gloating look. "So you're jealous?" I say thoughtfully.

He blushes, surprisingly adorable. "No," he mumbles, and I feel warmer inside.

"Whatever," I snort casually, and go back to watching his sister complete an obstacle course. Sophia's practically strutting through the thing from so many people watching her – crowds seem to follow me around this place. She's a born candidate for the games; it's obvious to anyone looking at her. She'd make any parent proud.

But then, the same was supposedly true for Cato, too, and look how things turned out for him. Winning is an untrustworthy honor, and he bet everything on it. I hope he can teach his sister to learn from his mistakes. Of course, she won't listen. If she's anything like he was, she'll never listen. It's a miracle he did.

I wait to bring it up till when we're walking home at night. Silas and Sophia stay behind at the training center; something about night training. "Hey," I nudge him. "Why aren't you like all of them anymore?"

"What?" he asks, clearly stalling.

"If they really do program you or whatever, how are you like this now? Why aren't you just happy that you won and content with bringing pride to your district? That's what I mean," I say, being careful not to raise my voice.

He watches his sister knock out three kids at least a year older than her. "Probably because of you," he says matter-of-factly.

"How's that?" I ask curiously.

"I don't know. It's the only thing different between me and the rest of them."

I'm not sure I agree with that. There are a lot of differences. Him, for example. Something in him wanted to give me a fighting chance. That's the only reason I'm here. But I don't argue with him.

Actually, I don't say anything, because I'm trying not to feel things. It doesn't frighten me anymore when I think about how he used to be. I don't worry about him betraying me – ME, the one who thought Peeta, of all people, was planning something sinister. I've come to terms with the fact that I trust him, as stupid as that may be, and no amount of paranoia is going to change that.

I know now that my worry was unnecessary, probably was the whole time. Nobody can fake the way he looked at me, the little tremor in his voice when he told me I was the only thing he saw, the gentleness from his over-sized hands whenever he touches me. None of that's fake.

I guess I maybe knew that the whole time, though, but didn't connect the dots. Like I said before, he takes care of me. He's who I went to in crisis. He's going to protect me.

Really, he already has, in so many ways. He has had every opportunity to take advantage of me in all imaginable ways, and he hasn't. Even a little bit. Not even once. He didn't even stay in the same room while I slept.

And then, over and above everything else, there's the fact that I called him out of the blue and he didn't hesitate to say yes and let me stay with him without any more information. He's done everything for me.

And he kissed me. Maybe more importantly, I kissed him. There's something going on with us, something that's making me feel like my guts are melting and I can't breathe right. If I had a bow in my hands, I'm not sure I'd make a single shot.

I guess he can feel me shaking, because he looks over at me. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"I think so. Are you okay?" Misdirection.

"Yeah." He knows I'm still not being one hundred percent honest, but he doesn't say anything else as we walk through the streets. I'm almost used to people looking at us as we pass, but something about their looks now seems different.

Right. That kiss.

"What's going on?" I ask him. "Are we… still friends? Or…"

Cato is suddenly wildly uncomfortable. "I thought you said were," he mumbles.

"No, I mean…are we still only friends, or…" Again, I can't finish that thought. Even with all of my insides liquefied and sloshing around, I still can't be one of those girls, like one of the bimbos who chased after Gale all those years.

Gale. He's going to be pissed at me when I get back. Even if I come back suddenly despising Cato, he still will. But I don't care about that, not as much as I care about these strange feelings.

So I man up and just say it. "Or are we more than that?" I finally get out.

"I don't… I don't know." I can barely hear him.

He ducks into his building, which I didn't recognize, and I quickly follow. I know what I have to say, but it takes me the entire elevator ride to get myself psyched up for it. After he unlocks his door and we go in, that's when I finally make myself say it. "Cato." He turns and looks at me, and I can't get any read on his face. Regardless, I make myself go on. "I don't know you that well. And you don't know me. But we trust each other, right? And we both don't hate each other. And we wanted to kiss each other."

"So?" he says flatly.

"So that all means something. Or it should, but I don't know enough to recognize what it is. I'm not good at this," I say in frustration.

"Neither am I."

"But we need to figure out what's going on. Before we go nuts," I insist.

He looks at me for a long moment. "Okay. Are we going to kiss again?"

"I don't know." I hope so. "Probably."

"And we're going to keep holding hands all the time."

"Yeah. If anyone asks, we're dating." That's just for practical reasons. Really.

He nods, then says, "So what about if I'm asking?"

"I dunno, you'd have to ask," I say breezily, attempting to be confident.

"Okay. Are we dating?" he asks with a hint of a smile.

"I don't… that's up to you," I stammer. I hoped he was the one who'd tell me. It's pretty obvious that he has no idea how to answer that, though, so I speak up again. "Okay. How about we talk about this again later, when we've both thought about it. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, alright," he nods.

I can't leave it like this – it feels weird. So I say, "Come home with me."

His answer is instantaneous. "When?"

"I don't know, in like a week? As soon as I can face Gale again. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. No rush," he reassures me. "I'm still working on a personality."

I smile. "Tomorrow I'll help you with that. But tonight I'm exhausted; you mind if I go to bed now?" I check, because I still can't help but feel distinctly like a bother.

"Uh, no. That's fine, you can go…" He motions vaguely toward the bedroom down the hall.

"I'm gonna get in the shower, actually," I say, to prevent him walking in on me or something. "Are you going to…"

This is awkward – he can feel it, too – but we both act like we don't. "Just tell me when you're done," he says.

I nod, and walk down the hall into his bedroom. I trust him, I do, but I still lock the bathroom door before I get in the shower, just to be safe. I shower quickly, standing and letting the hot water beat down on my back for just a second. I'm sore, but it's a good kind of sore, from more shooting than I'm accustomed to doing, even on a good hunting day.

I borrow another one of his oversized shirts to sleep in, and fiddle with his closet until it spits out a pair of sweatpants that won't fall off of me. I wring out my hair, comb out the worst of the tangles with my fingers, and open the bathroom door.

Cato's in the living room, watching something about the games, but he turns it off as soon as he sees me. "Your turn," I tell him, and he disappears into the bedroom.

I make my way to the kitchen and try to order something normal, because this weird food is good, but not what I'm in the mood for. After some effort, I get something that at least resembles food from home, this stew that kind of looks like something from Greasy Sae, except instead of some weird meat, it's chunks of steak, with spices and vegetables.

Cradling the bowl in my arm, I wander into the bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, waiting for him to come out. I can hear the water going, which is strangely comforting, because it means that someone else is here with me.

I'm, lost in thought, staring blankly at the door when it opens and he walks out. He's wearing a tank top and sweatpants like mine, but bigger. When he sees me, he hesitates. I pat the bed next to me a couple times, and he comes over and sits.

"What are you eating?" he asks, rolling his shoulder and making it crack loudly.

"Some kind of stew." I shrug. "I'm trying for something from twelve, but it's not the same."

"Better?"

"Worse," I decide, which is weird. "Nothing tastes quite like dog meat, I guess," I say, half because it's true but also because I want to freak him out.

It works. He frowns in surprise, then quickly covers that up. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely. Had some dog stews that would've fit in on a table in some party at the Capitol." That much is completely true. "This isn't bad, though."

"Wow. Okay. That's interesting," he says after a second.

"Grossed out?"

He laughs once. "Nope."

Of course he isn't. I'm sure he's seen worse than dog stew.

I notice he's got more scars on his shoulders, looking out of place on the skin over his smooth muscle. Suddenly, I'm overcome with a strong urge to touch those shoulders, but instead, I cram my mouth full of more stew.

He sits with me quietly as I eat, sprawled against the headboard. I empty the bowl and then look over at him; he's relaxed, and looks completely at peace for once. He meets my eyes, not scared or sweet or cocky. Just calm. "You can sleep in here," I suggest.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah. You'll just end up running in here when I have a nightmare again, right?"

"Well I'm not just going to let you scream," he says, slightly offended.

"Then yeah, why not. Just stay here."

He nods after a second. "Sure. As long as you don't mind."

"I don't." I put the bowl on the floor by the bed, then lie back and fold my hands over my stomach. I turn my head to look at him, leaning on the headboard, and he turns to me, too. I look at the shoulder closest to me, at the lines of scars that continue up his arms and disappear under his shirt. "What happened to you?" I ask, not caring that I've asked this several times before.

The skin around his eyes tightens. "So much," he says wearily.

"And you absolutely refuse to talk about it?"

"Yeah, I… yeah."

I suck in my cheeks and then blow out all my breath at once. "Before you can ask, I do not hate you because of this," I say after a second.

One corner of his mouth twitches up. "Good to know."

For some reason, I really want to kiss that mouth right now. Another crazy impulse. But I don't act on it, because I don't want to move. "I'm sorry, I'm going to wake you up," I say.

"It's fine," he half-shrugs. "I don't usually sleep the whole night anyway."

"Why?" I frown.

"Dreams. Or I'm not tired. Sometimes I go and train."

I nod, and then sort of slide down until I'm horizontal. I realize then that there's one pillow, but Cato cuts me off before I can give it to him. "You take it. I sleep better without one," he says firmly, and I don't argue.

The light in the room is dim, so I start to drift off. At some point, he puts a blanket over me, shifts on his side of the bed, and turns out the light. Before I completely fall asleep, I make a point to tell him, "You can still train at night if you want. I'll be fine."

I don't stay awake long enough to hear his answer, vaguely registering a negative-sounding reply. And then I'm asleep.

The peacefulness I was feeling before is gone in my dreams. Gale shows up again to taunt me in the way only he can, Peeta makes an appearance, and just to round out the full nightmare quota, I watch a blurry man who looks an awful lot like my father be torn apart by muttations.

It's that last one that finally makes me scream and jolt into consciousness. And Cato's right there, lying next to me. He rolls over and pulls me towards him, sits halfway up and puts his arm around me, his other hand stroking my cheek. I'm not conscious enough to realize that's awfully familiar, I just know enough to be comforted. I don't hear a sound out of him, or even see his face, but that's okay. I don't need that. I just need him next to me here in the night, holding me.

I don't fall asleep again, but I lie there, completely still, because I don't want this to stop. When he thinks I'm asleep, he acts different. His arms around me are both more confident and more hesitant. I could even swear that he gently runs his fingers through my hair once. In the dark, everything's fuzzier, but I can live with fuzzy, with the way he touches me.

**-xXx-**

**A/N: Hey guys, I hate to do this to you again, but I'm super busy with going home, studying for finals, and that type of thing. I was going to wait until I had the time to do this properly, but then I started to see a second wave of reviews with the theme, "If I review, maybe you'll update?" and I felt incredibly guilty. So here it is! Enjoy!**

**All of you darlings with the long reviews, I love you bunches. Special place in my heart for you, as always. Let me know what you think, guys! As always, negative criticism is also appreciated.**

**S/O to my sister who knew the exact date that I last updated even though I didn't. **


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N: I wasn't going to post this, because you all deserve a bonus and responses to your wonderful reviews, and I don't have the time to give that to you yet. There's even a bunch of new reviewers and newcomers to the story who are super sweet and have taken the time to let me know they ditched their lives to read it or things of that nature. And the last thing I want to do is not give you your due as readers. **

**But. I don't have the time yet. **

**So here's another chapter, because 9 days is a ridiculous time to not update. I'm so sorry. I love you all. Please don't get upset. **

**OH. Andbutso for all you new people, any ideas for Quarter Quell arenas? I already know how the tributes will be picked, and I have a few theories about which arenas would be best, but I'm interested in your thoughts!**

**I'M SO SORRY.**

When I feel him let go of me and sit up, I give up the pretense of sleep, pulling myself up on all fours. I can feel his eyes on me. "Were you ever really asleep again?" he asks.

I don't answer, and then the phone rings. He answers it while I rub my eyes and half-listen.

"Hello? Oh. What do you want? …no, I was going to… I guess not. Okay. Fine. Yeah. …yeah, she will, do you… fine. Yep. Bye." He hangs up. "We gotta go visit my parents again," he says gloomily. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I assure him. We get dressed, eat some kind of breakfast, and leave. The walk to his parent's apartment is silent. I guess neither of us is in the mood for flirting. But we hold hands, almost as a reflex, though he separates from me on the elevator ride up, just like last time, and I don't argue with that. He knows what he's doing.

The kids aren't there this time, already gone to training, so I hang back rather awkwardly while he searches the apartment for his mother. Apparently there's a rule against yelling or something.

But that rule doesn't seem to apply to his mother. When we find her in the dining room area, the conversation between the two of them rapidly escalates from hostile civility to her yelling at him and him not saying a thing, her yanking him around behind her so she can look at him and yell more effectively, from a closer distance, and him not even trying to resist. At one point, she thinks he rolled his eyes, so she grinds her fist into his hand on the table. I can hear something in his hand snap, but he doesn't even flinch. When she finally lets him go, he doesn't even talk to me, just walks right past me into the elevator.

I follow him, of course, and I wait to speak until the doors are closed. "Hey," I say softly.

He doesn't even move.

"Cato."

He glances up at me from underneath his eyelashes for just a second, and I can see his eyes aren't strictly dry. His hand is already swollen and bruised, his arms bleeding now from several tiny little gouges, and now I know where at least some of those scars on his arm are from. He probably had them before, I realize, but they got stripped off before the games. Nobody probably cared before me. That's all.

"Listen," I start to say, but he shakes his head.

"I'm going to go train."

"I'll come with you."

He almost shrugs, just a twitch of his shoulders, and then he doesn't do anything, say anything, except when we get off the elevator. "Don't hold my hand," he says flatly.

"Okay." I'm unreasonably hurt by this, but I refuse to let myself show it. So I walk to the training center in stubborn silence.

We go different ways without speaking inside the training center, him to spar with other similarly oversized physical wonders, and me to teach another class. This time, it's younger tributes, the ones closer to Clove's age. These kids are slightly less psychotically one-minded; all of the joking hasn't been trained out of them quite yet. There're a few serious ones without the ability to smile, but only a few among the hundred or so kids I teach today.

But it's harder, too, because these kids are also closer to my age. If they'd grown up in twelve, they would've been my classmates. Maybe a couple would've even been my friends, like the girl with red hair who can't stay still, or the boy with almost white eyes that hits the target dead-center on his third try. I guess I'll never know.

Today, I explain away my training them by telling myself it's a wartime sacrifice. Necessary. I need the district to like me, and I made a promise. And more importantly, like I said before, it's not like I'm increasing the body count.

After I finish, Sophia kidnaps me and drags me over to the maze, making a very big show of literally showing me the ropes. And Silas is in there, too, sticking his head out from behind obstacles when his sister isn't looking and smirking at me. He's really the quietest kid I've known, and I come from a district where silence is praised.

Apparently, I'm good at climbing and such – at least, according to Sophia. I refrain from pointing out that I practically lived in a forest for the past five years.

It's nice to spend a little time with her, not thinking about anything more complex than how to talk to her, how to climb fast enough but not too fast. It ends, though, which sucks because then I have to come to terms with the fact that Cato hasn't said a word to me since we stepped into the building. He's barely even looked to me. I'm not sure if it's because he's mad at me or embarrassed or what – he hasn't really given me a chance to ask. That actually pisses me off after I think about it.

So I chase him down and get him away from all the tributes he's working with, off to one side. "Are you mad at me?" I ask him, flat out.

"What do you mean?" he says cagily.

"You won't talk to me, you're avoiding me, and it's all since we left your parents' house. Did I do something? Or… what's going on?"

"Nothing," he says obstinately.

I'm used to honesty from him, total and complete. But he's not being honest anymore. He's lying to me. And I have no idea what to do about it. "That's not true," I say helplessly.

He just shrugs, face hard. "Is that all you want?" he asks harshly.

"Yeah. I guess so." Now I'm angry. He's being difficult on purpose, for no reason. "And you're not going to answer me?"

"I don't owe you an answer," he says, hostile.

"Fine," I shrug. "Be like this. I'm not going to beg you to talk to me."

"Fine," he glares.

So I storm away and he goes back to training. We don't talk for the rest of the day; I only catch glimpses of him attacking things, shooting things with ferocity, chopping off appendages. We're fighting, I guess, so I don't feel bad about not speaking to him, eating with him, or looking at him. Not at all.

And then he comes up behind me while I'm learning to throw knives. I don't hear him coming over all the noise, just feel his hand on my shoulder. I flinch away, but he doesn't let me get far from him. Silently, he moves my arm backwards, nudges my back foot to correct my stance, and then steps away.

Part of me really wants to move back to how I was standing because I don't need his help. But I do need help in this case, and I'm not big on self-sabotage, so I keep my stance the way he put it and throw the knife. It's considerably closer to the bull's-eye than my previous throws. Reluctantly, I mutter, "Thanks."

He nods, jaw clenched. I throw again, getting the movement more gracefully. It's a different movement than shooting a bow, but it's got the same rhythm, and it seems like a very practical skill to have.

"It's late," he says after a second. "We should go."

His tone is blank, so I can't tell what he's thinking like I usually can, but the request is straight-forward enough, so I go with him. I still trust him that much. I'm starting to realize, though, that his transparency with me isn't because I'm good at reading him. It's because he was letting me in. And now, he isn't.

He doesn't talk to me after that. Even when we get inside his apartment, he goes silently to the couch and I go straight to the shower. He's waiting in the bedroom for me when I come out, and I sit on the bed, where I did last night. And when he's done, he comes to sit next to me. I guess we have a routine now.

I'm still pissed at him, but in a more quiet, tired way, where I just want him to apologize, explain himself, and be like he was before. "Why are you doing this?" I ask him after a while, not looking at his face.

He doesn't answer.

"If you're gonna be silent forever, I can leave."

"Don't," he says quickly, then clears his throat because his voice sounds almost rusty.

"Why?" I cross my arms, hostile.

"Just don't."

Terrible reasoning. But somehow convincing. "Give me a reason," I say, forcing myself to hold out a little longer.

"Trust me."

I can't tell if it's a statement or a question. Either way, it's a test, one that I knew the answer to before I even knew I was taking it. I'm not going to admit it out loud, though. Even now, I'm not that stupid. Instead, I lie down, turning my back to him, and go very still, every sense hyper-alert to determine his reaction.

The bed's completely still at first. I'm not sure he's even breathing. Then he leans over and turns off the light, and I feel him lie down, too. He stays away from me – barely even moves, so I'm not sure when he actually falls asleep. All I know is it takes me what feels like forever to finally get my eyes closed, because I can't stop waiting for him to touch me, talk to me, anything. But he does nothing.

Until later, when I wake up, terrified of the collapsing mine shaft I see before me in my dreams. He's there for me, just like before, completely willing to wake up for me and rub my arm comfortingly.

That's not enough this time, though. Everything was so vivid that at first, I'm not completely sure this isn't a dream. He is mad at me, after all. Maybe he's mad enough to let me scream. Maybe this him is just my subconscious wish-fulfillment.

"How do I know you're real?" I say thickly, my lips half-numb.

He ignores my attempts to escape and sits up, then pulls me up, too. He puts me in his lap, letting me curl up in a little ball defensively, and then he wraps his arms around me, somehow fitting them around my whole body and locking them around me. And he leans over me, resting his head on the back of my head, so his whole chest is touching my whole back.

This is definitely real. So when he asks me, "Is this real?" I answer,

"I think so."

He's warm, but I don't mind – anything's better than nothing. And he's very definitely here, real, with me. Right now, that's all that matters.

I actually fall back asleep while he holds me like that, and it's a weird kind of sleep – complete and black, dreamless. I'm usually a light sleeper, but this time, I don't notice a thing until I wake up.

There's no windows, but I think it's the morning. I don't think about that for long, though, because Cato's not in bed next to me, so I panic. Immediately, I get up, almost run into the kitchen to check to see if he's there, then with increasing worry, check the living room. He's nowhere.

I run back into the bedroom – not sure why. Maybe to get dressed so I can run and look for him. I haven't really thought enough to work that out. I wrench open the closet door, but then the bathroom door opens and Cato comes out. He's on edge, worried.

"You're here," I say, suddenly more relieved than I thought possible.

He stares at me, either surprised or concerned. "Yeah. I went to train."

"Good," I sigh, rubbing my forehead and leaning on the doorframe for support.

"Should I not have gone?"

I can't tell if that's a serious question or not. "No, you can go. I said you could. And it's your own life," I say uncomfortably.

Cato doesn't move, still looking at me, and now that I'm not panicked, I notice he isn't wearing a shirt. Immediately, I note in my head they must not have removed all of his scars from before, because there's really no way he got this many. Plus, I recognize a few from the tapes I caught a glimpse of; the bullet hole in his stomach, the ropey scar over his shoulder. But the pattern of smaller ones almost looks like lace over his skin.

"You kept some of your scars," I say casually.

He glances down at himself, hastily puts on the shirt in his hands. "Yep. You're okay?"

I nod, and after a second, he walks away, back into the bathroom. I eat breakfast while he finishes up in there, and then he eats while I change, spending the minimum amount of time together possible.

That's pretty much how the whole day goes. We go to the training center again, not holding hands, and split up, do our own things. I sit next to him at lunch, just for appearances, but we don't even so much as look at each other.

And while this definitely makes me upset, deeply sad in a way that I don't understand, I don't break the silence. I'm not being all vindictive or anything, but I'll freely admit to being stubborn. It's justified here – I haven't done anything wrong that I can think of, and I definitely think about it, during the day. Really, though, he just started being weird all of a sudden after we left his parents' house.

I'd almost think it had to with that, except that doesn't make sense. Nothing he's done recently has made sense. I'm not going to talk to him and try to get any answers when that just means he'll have another chance to be an ass to me.

We go home in silence, too, and we've fallen into a rhythm for nighttime that doesn't even require us talking. Again, he gets into bed with me. Again, he doesn't touch me until I wake up begging invisible forces to stop. Then, he holds me tightly until I can breathe again.

The silence between us bothers me, even if I pretend otherwise. So while he holds me, I mumble, "Remind me why I'm still here. Tell me a reason. Just one."

And he doesn't say anything.

I fall back asleep tonight, which is weird but so nice. Guess I didn't realize how much I've missed having more than three hours of sleep at a time until I've missed it for weeks. Something about him, though, even when we're fighting, is comforting. I feel safe with him. Even when I'm mad at him.

I wake up less mad. As time goes on, I find it more and more difficult to not slip into our comfortable relationship from before. Because I am comfortable with him, almost more than I'm willing to admit. So I'm almost ready to break the silence and say something when I realize it's the second morning he's not in bed with me.

This time, I don't panic. Calmly, I check the bathroom, living room, then the kitchen. By the time I'm at the last one, I'm already justifying things to myself – he's probably out training. That's it. Nothing to worry about. Then I see he's left me a note on the counter.

Quickly, I pick it up and something falls out; the chain he wears around his neck with the key on it. Up close, I can realize it's got more than just that on it. There's also a set of dog tags engraved with his name, birth date, height, and weight. Holding it in one hand, I scan the lines of his careful handwriting, thick and blocky.

_I have to take care of some things in the Capitol. I'll be back by tonight._

_1. You always stand like you're ready to fight._

_2. I still don't think I know how well you can really shoot._

_3. You have eyes like light off the top of a lake during a storm._

_3 reasons for you to stay. _

_I don't hate you._

Why am I crying? I put the paper back on the counter so I can wipe my eyes on his huge shirt and not worry about dripping on the writing, slip the chain around my neck, feel the weight of it against my chest, and immediately start crying harder.

There are so many reasons I'm an emotional mess now. The simplest and stupidest is that he wants me here with him. I don't know why that affects me so strongly.

And he doesn't hate me. Not that I thought he did, but there's meaning behind his words, I think. Like there was with Haymitch. I think he's trying to tell me it wasn't my fault.

So I'm pretty sure we're not fighting anymore, though I have no idea why. But I'll take it.

I know the way to the training center, so I get dressed and eat, then make my way there on my own. I'm nervous on the walk there – didn't realize how reassuring having someone like Cato next to me to stand the stares and whispers was.

There aren't as many cameras in the building, so that's better. Plus, from the past couple days, I'm used to spending my day in here alone, mostly. And I'm not even alone – his two siblings both seem drawn to me today. Sophia literally jumps on my back, just like she did to Cato before, and I take that to mean she's not suspicious of me anymore. She demands information from me – not the whereabouts of her brother, but more shooting secrets. She's just interested in information.

Silas comes over too, listening to our conversation without saying anything for a while. He soaks up information like a sponge; I've noticed that about him during the past few days. But somehow, I don't think he'll ever be able to use it. I don't think he's a killer.

At least, I think that before I saw him take a turn at the obstacle course. It's no surprise that he slips through the obstacle part easily; I'm not worried about that. It's the last part, where he has to fight other tributes, that I'm scared about.

I should've known better. They send in three of the bigger boys, which doesn't seem fair for the first few seconds. And then he brings them to their knees in under a minute, ducking their blows and moving in close to press a few fingers to their necks or jab them on a set of pressure points. He's the only kid his age who makes it through.

I should've known. He's ruthless, just like his siblings only deadlier, because he doesn't look it. I'm impressed, and relieved – he won't die if he goes in that arena. Not right away.

Not at all, maybe, judging from what I see when he thinks nobody's watching. During another tribute's run through the course, one of the favorites to win the next games, Silas wanders over to the archery range, picks up a bow.

Three arrows cluster together in the center of the bull's-eye. Then, calmly, he puts down the bow and walks away on silent feet. Like he can feel my eyes on him, he looks my way; I do my best not to smirk at him, and he smiles, then disappears into another room.

During the last few hours of the day, I start to get anxious. Cato isn't back yet. He said he'd be back by tonight. Something must've gone wrong.

But "by tonight" could mean tonight. He'll probably come back to the apartment after I get there. Nothing to worry about. I do not need to be worried.

I am, though. Because now that we're not fighting and I can let myself admit to myself just how much I like having him around, how much I've come to count on him, I'm suddenly terrified to lose that. So he's coming back. He said he would and he is. I'm just being paranoid and weird again. That's a huge problem for me; I already know that.

I make myself stay at the training center until the normal time, but I'd be a liar if I said I don't walk home at an alarmingly fast pace. I get in the shower, push the usual buttons, and am taken completely off-guard when I start to cry. Because I've suddenly connected the dots that the soap I've been using for the past few days smells like him.

I don't know why that's suddenly a problem; I'm sure I've known that somewhere in the back of my head, but it hits me like a freight train, out of nowhere. And then I'm crying for about a zillion different reasons; I smell like him, and he probably already noticed it, and I kind of irrationally feel like I'm kind of becoming him but that's not at all a bad thing. And I don't know why it isn't, because I feel like it should be but at the same time, want to be more like him. He's so strong, invulnerable, and kind, though he tries to hide it. I wish I were more like that. Maybe I wouldn't keep getting hurt like I do.

Although that's exactly what is happening here, with him. I'm trusting him too much, which will only mean I'm going to get hurt by him. But I have some say in who hurts me – who I let hurt me – and I've chosen him. It takes me until right now, alone in the shower, surrounded by the smell of him, for me to understand that. For better or for worse, I've chosen him.

Somehow, I finish the shower, get dressed in his clothes, and curl in blankets on his bed. I don't cry anymore – the thoughts I'm having aren't sad anymore, more like bittersweet in a way that makes my chest hurt.

Somehow, I end up thinking about Peeta, all of the things that I'll never let myself forget about him; how stupid he was, how insistent he was on sacrificing everything to keep me safe. How he knew everything about me, even more than I knew about me, because he saw me when no one else did.

I never got the chance to tell him how much I loved that, how much I appreciated him. I'll never get that chance. But I'd like to think he doesn't hate me, wherever he is now.

I can't let that consume me, though. I can't let the dead stop me from living. There's enough going on to consume my thoughts right now, like Gale, for example.

Asshole. I still can't believe what he did. He completely freaked out, went beyond nuts and completely blew things out of proportion. Right now, though, I can't work up the appropriate anger at his actions. Right now, I'm just sad about it. In days, I've lost two friends, including the best friend I've ever had, for stupid reasons. Maybe the stupidest reason ever, in Gale's case. I'm still not even sure what we fought about, just that he made ridiculous baseless accusations about me and hurt me worse than I thought possible.

In a way, though, it was good, because that got me here, with Cato. The thought of not being here, not knowing what it feels like to have him hold me in the middle of the night, not knowing what it's like for him to kiss me, it's preposterous. We belong like this.

My heart jumps in excitement when I think about the note he left me. I get the note from the kitchen, just to reread what he said, about my eyes. Light off the top of a lake during a storm. Where the hell did he get that from? Desperation, I guess. He was really scared I was going to leave. Maybe he needs me, too.

Then again, maybe he doesn't. He left without waking me up last night. Yeah, he left a note, but that was probably just a courtesy. He probably has gotten tired of me being here, cramping his style or whatever. You can want someone to stay and still get fed up with them, right? Confused feelings are really possible; I know that better than anyone.

I'm trying to decide what I think about this, how I think he thinks of me, when I hear the front door open. I locked it; I'm sure of that. So it has to be him. I stay sitting up in the bed, listening to his footsteps approaching down the hall.

He nudges the door open, walks into the room. The hood on his jacket is up, his hands in his pockets, and as I watch him drop a duffle bag on the floor, and take a deep breath, I realize something's very wrong. His head is down, his face in shadow, and his shoulders are hunched. He doesn't say anything, just looks up at my face.

He stares at me for a very long few seconds, sighs, and chews on his lip. He's not even trying for his usual strong silent thing; his face looks just plain exhausted, several years older, even, and I don't know what that means. "You're here," he says heavily.

"You gave me three very convincing reasons," I explain, smiling a little, but I'm actually nervous for some reason. Something about his face, I guess, the way he's standing.

He nods slowly, and takes a deep breath. "How was your day?" he asks, and I get the feeling he's doing his best to be normal and friendly, but he's not doing so well.

"Fine. Yours?" I say hesitantly, watching his face carefully.

And for some reason, that's the final straw. His hands ball into his fists in his pockets, and I get the craziest hunch that he's about to cry. But that can't be right. He clenches his jaw, moves his shoulders a little to get the hood more securely over his head, and doesn't answer for the longest time. And when he finally does, all he says is "Katniss…"

I'd never do what I'm about to in any other situation. But he just looks so tired, helpless, maybe even weak, in a really weird way. So I hold my arms out to him, questioningly, ready to start thinking of some way to play this off if he doesn't react to this the way he's supposed to. But he finds a way to completely surprise me anyway.

He takes a second to look at my outstretched arms, takes one hesitant step towards me, and then all but falls onto the bed, crawling up towards me and letting me hold him. With him close to me, I can feel him shaking, little tremors growing bigger as he takes a deep, shuddering breath against me. And all I can do is try my best to be steady, to calm him down somehow, even though I don't know what's wrong.

I lock my arms around him, around all of him that I can reach, and I try my best not to be completely freaked out by the fact that he seems to be falling apart. "Hey, hey, what's going on?" I ask, awkwardly patting his back. I've never seen him like this – I've never seen anyone like this, and it's definitely scaring me. The closest thing to it is my mother after my father died, but I know that can't be right.

He doesn't say a word. I almost wonder if he can't right now.

I want to ask him if he's okay, but he probably won't answer that, either. So instead, I say, "Cato, I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, I'll do whatever you need alright? I'll help you with this. It's gonna be okay."

"You can't help," he says, voice muffled.

"Why the hell not?"

No answer.

"What do you need from me, then?" I ask after a second. "Tell me what you want. I'll do it. Anything." It's definitely really stupid to make such a broad blanket statement, one so easily exploited if he feels like it. Somehow, though, I know he won't.

He hesitates. "Nothing," he finally says. "Just…"

I'm pretty sure he wants me to keep holding him but he can't admit it. But that's okay. He doesn't have to say it. I can still do this. For him. I'm starting to think maybe I'll do anything for him, if I don't think too hard.

So I move him, so he's mostly sitting in my lap, except with his legs off to one side because he's too big to actually fit, and I adjust my grip on him so he's still leaning into me but I'm more comfortable, so I can hold him like this forever if he wants.

He lets me move him around without resistance – another sign that things are really wrong. And in the process, his hood falls down. His hair is soaking wet, even though I'm pretty sure it's not raining outside. "Why's your hair wet?" I ask.

My chin's on his shoulder, so I can't see his reaction. I just know it takes him a long time to finally answer. "Showered on the train."

"Yeah? What'd you do at the Capitol?"

His grip on me tightens, I'm pretty sure the shaking gets more intense, and he doesn't say a thing in response. I take a very deep breath, trying to think, and inadvertently smell him. He doesn't smell like he's supposed to, like I do. He smells sterile, like the Capitol.

"Are you hurt?" I finally say helplessly, because I don't care how upset he is; if he's hurt, I won't let him ignore that.

He exhales half a laugh, and I feel his breath down my back. He doesn't answer that question, either. Not for several minutes. "I don't know," is all he says then.

What that's supposed to mean? I decide the one thing it doesn't mean is that he needs any kind of immediate medical attention, so I tighten my arms around him but otherwise don't move. Silence is freaky, though, so I make up a question. "Is your hand okay?"

"Yeah. Just swollen. It'll be fine in a few days." Then he adds in an undertone, "Happens a lot, anyways. Not a big deal."

"Your mom does this to you a lot," I say dubiously, because my first instinct is to not believe anything could hurt him – he's too strong.

"Sometimes. Yeah," he says after a second, though. I guess nobody's too strong. I mean, look at him, in my arms, falling apart. Something broke him.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your problem."

"It is, though. I'm your… we're friends," I say, though that word doesn't seem strong enough for what we have now. "Your problems are my problems."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what my problems are."

I don't know how to respond to that, because I don't know what his problems are, he's right, but I almost feel like I don't care. That's insane, though. Too crazy even for me. So I rub my fingers through his wet hair, half to be comforting but also because I've been wanting to do this for a while. I like how his hair feels.

He doesn't move for a very long time, letting me stroke his hair and hold him so close I can feel his heartbeat against me. And he's still bigger than me, but it's clear I'm the one protecting him from his thoughts, stopping him from cracking right now. And he's letting me, which is almost more important.

I can't stop myself from asking one more time. "What's wrong?" It's not just a question this time, though. I'm practically begging him for an answer, any kind of answer.

"I can't tell you," he says.

"Tell me something."

At first, I don't think I'm going to get even that. And then he says, "Like what?"

"Anything, I don't know. Don't make me just watch you like this, though."

He kind of laughs into my shoulder angrily. "Why do you care?" he wants to know.

"Because…" Too stupid to say it's because I care about him.

There's a silence while I try to figure out what to say. Then he says, "I wanted you to stay. More than I've wanted anything. Except winning. I wanted that, too."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're… like this. Nobody else would do this."

"And you knew you'd need a hug?" I say, teasing him just a bit.

"No. But I'm… I'm different. Because of you. And you're… I don't know how to say it. It sounds stupid every way." His arms twitch – I feel his bicep hard against my side for a second.

"Just say it. I don't care," I assure him.

He sighs deeply. "Alright. Everybody else is kind of grey around here, y'know? They don't think about what they're doing a lot. They do what's honorable. I thought that was what mattered. But then you, you're on fire. Since that night in the Capitol. I hated you for that, you stole the spotlight. You were everything I'd wanted. And you weren't even trying," he says, then pauses. "I guess you've been on fire ever since. To me, anyways." Another pause. "How stupid was that?"

"Not…" I have to clear my throat, which is suddenly thick with rising tears. "Not stupid at all. That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Really?" He sounds skeptical.

"Absolutely." I feel like I should return the favor. Nothing I say will ever approach what he just told me, though. "I don't think you were ever grey," I finally admit shyly.

"Then you're wrong. I'm the worst out of all of them," he says bitterly. "Guess I'm lucky you came along, or I'd be dead. Or back here alone."

"And that wouldn't be better? You wouldn't even know anything was wrong," I point out.

"I think maybe I would. Wouldn't know I knew it, but I had a feeling… even before the games, I had a feeling. That this couldn't be it. I mean, you win. Then what?"

"Try to deal with the psychological issues that come with killing 23 kids," I suggest.

"Not a lot of that around here," he shakes his head. "Used to it."

"Right. Well. Like you said. You were different. You'd probably have a different reaction."

He has to give me that one. "Probably. Glad I don't have to find out, though." Again, his arms tighten around me, almost moves me without trying, and he hangs onto me like I'm a lifeline. "You're the best thing ever," he murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself. I'm glad I don't have to find out, too," I say in his ear, and I don't even worry about how stupid that makes me sound.

He falls asleep in my arms, curled up against my chest for a change. And before I can wake him up with my dreams, he wakes me up. I feel him twitch, stiffening every muscle in his body at once so abruptly that it moves me, and I force open my eyes.

He's clutching at me anxiously, fingers tightening on my back, but he doesn't say a word. I shake him a little, to shock him out of whatever nightmare he's caught in, and his eyes fly open, flooded with terror.

"Hey," I whisper, watching him carefully. Lucky I forgot to turn off the light, because I can see his expression change, to realization and relief and then almost happiness.

"Hey," he says back.

I've slipped down from my sitting position a little and he's pretty much sprawled across my lap, so we can actually see each other's faces. "What was that?" I ask.

"A dream, I guess," he says, looking at me like I'm special or something.

"Do you have them a lot?" I frown.

"Almost every night," he says nonchalantly.

How have I missed that? He's had a nightmare every night and I don't even notice. Meanwhile, he gets up to comfort me without me saying a thing. And he thinks _I'm_ the good person.

"Look, it's not like you should've known it." Guess he noticed the guilt on my face.

"I should've noticed something, at least," I say in frustration.

"Nah. I don't yell or anything. They teach us to be quiet. Not a problem." I still feel bad about it, and he can tell that, I'm sure. He just stares at me, though, looking so deep in my eyes it would make me feel uncomfortable if I wasn't staring back. "I meant what I said about your eyes," he says.

"Okay." I smile a little.

More staring. His eyes are gorgeous, really.

"I want to kiss you again," he says matter-of-factly, his voice raspy.

"Then do it."

And then his head lifts up and I bend down and we're kissing. Except this time, it's different because there's no cameras around, no tiny pretense of doing this for our public image. We're just doing this for us, because we want to.

One of his hands makes its way up to my face, and he keeps touching me, even after we break apart, both of us slightly short of breath. Gently, he brushes a few of his big fingers over my cheek, then up to the edge of the scar through my eyebrow. "What are you doing?" I whisper to him, keeping very still.

"I don't know." And then his fingers slide around to the nape of my neck and he pulls me down for a second kiss, a shorter but deeper one. I touch his face, the sharp angle of his cheekbone, trace the rough claw marks there.

"Why'd you keep the scars?" he asks very quietly. "Really. Why?"

"Felt important. I had to remember what happened."

"Which part of what happened?"

"The part where you were nice. I wasn't sure you'd still be like that after."

The words coming out of my mouth are true, but I didn't know any of that before this very instant. I did need to remember him like that, and Peeta, too. I guess that's the only way I could think of to do it.

And Cato, he's looking at me like I'm some kind of miracle. "You're serious," he says.

"Yeah."

He smiles, somehow frowning a little at the same time. "You're saying you're not going to snap out of this or whatever when you leave."

"I won't," I say, completely sure of it. What happened between us here isn't going to just disappear the farther we get from each other. Still though, I don't like the idea of us separating. Not after everything that's happened. So, impulsively, I suggest, "Come home with me."

"When?"

"I don't care. Tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

'What about Gale, and-"

"Screw Gale," I say fiercely. "He doesn't control what I do."

"Geez, alright. Whatever," he says, actually smiling. "We'll go."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Then go back to sleep first. You need to look good to meet my mom."

He smirks. "I don't look good?"

"Don't push your luck." I narrow my eyes at him, wrinkle my nose and do NOT smile.

"Okay," he says, very seriously.

I've been slipping all this time, very slowly, so I adjust my position now, deciding to just lie all the way down next to him. And he doesn't move really, so I end up with his legs over mine, one of his arms under my neck, his head resting on my stomach.

"Sleep," I instruct him firmly.

"You too."

"No promises."


	19. Chapter 18

**A/N: Alright so even if I didn't have exams, the reviews are getting to the point where answering all of them, or even individually acknowledging all of you individually would take way too long. I got close to 50 reviews for the last chapter, from you old standbys and from a bunch of new kids who seem super awesome. You're all spectacular readers. **

**For those of you just joining us on this journey, I'd like to introduce myself. Hi! I'm Anna. I have a tumblr, username significationary. Look me up! I sometimes post things about this fanfiction, and also a bunch of things from everything else that I like. I love to talk to you guys when I get the chance, and I'd also love to answer any questions I can. **

**I've decided I'm going to split this whole thing into at least two stories. The sheer length is going to get ridiculous if I keep writing straight through, and I don't know where/when I'm going to stop this one. So stay posted! **

**I KNOW I STILL OWE YOU A BONUS. What do you even want? I'm so behind on this. I'm such a bad author I'M SORRY. Thoughts about the Quarter Quell arena are still welcomed, as are any ideas BUT plot suggestions will rarely be taken, if ever. If you have a problem with something, absolutely let me know, please, but also offer a solution if you can, to be more helpful. **

**Two more days of finals, so hopefully everything will open up by then. Thank you all so much for reading! Enjoy!**

But I do fall asleep, and so does he. We wake up with our hands somehow tangled up together. I feel his breathing change, but he doesn't move for several moments.

"Hi," he says, curling tighter around me for a second, squeezing me tight and then letting go to stretch his arms and legs.

"Hi." I arch my back and let go of him to straighten my arms out, then put them back around him. "We gonna leave, then?"

"Sure."

"Just pack some clothes or something. We don't have closets like that at home."

"Okay."

"We should get up," I observe.

"Yep."

Neither of us moves for a good minute.

"We'll miss the train," he says reluctantly.

Good point. So I get up and get dressed, and then I go into the kitchen to eat food while he changes. I order ridiculously rich things – you only live once, right? And there's none of this at home. Might as well enjoy it.

"You want some of this?" I ask Cato when he comes out with a duffle over his shoulder.

"Not hungry," he shakes his head. So we go.

We don't hold hands, but not because we're angry or anything. Instead, his arm is around my waist, holding me closer than just holding hands would. And we look pretty ridiculous, I'm sure; him with his hood up again, in very comfortable-looking sweats, and me wearing clothes that still aren't quite my size.

We wait on the train platform for a second, and I realize that I'm wearing my father's jacket, but left Cinna's in the apartment. "We have to go back," I say quickly. "I left Cinna's blazer in the-"

He unzips part of the bag, just a few inches, enough for me to see metallic copper. "I've got it," he says. "Don't worry."

"Okay," I say after a second, taken off-guard by his thoughtfulness. "Thanks."

He doesn't answer, just slides his arm down around my waist and tentatively pulls me closer. I let him, leaning into his warm side and trying not to think about how scared and small he was just a few hours ago.

We're not the only passengers on the train. Several district two winners board with us, looking at the two of us with expressions ranging from disgust to amusement, but I don't pay any attention to that. We get two plush seats, looking out the window. I curl up in mine comfortably. He sits down stiffly, but leans towards me. I put my hand near his on the armrest so he can easily reach it if he wants, but he doesn't. Instead, he lightly brushes the back of my hand with his fingertips, just for a second, like he's reassuring myself that I'm here, or real, or something.

"You're sure you want me to come?" he asks.

"Absolutely," I assure him, turning to look him in the eyes so he can tell I'm serious.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I want you there. I mean, if we're going to be… I don't know, whatever we are, then my family has to know you. Which means you have to make a first visit some time."

"Right," he says unenthusiastically. "What'd you tell them about me so far?"

"Well, they don't hate you, if that's what you're thinking."

Judging from his reaction, that's exactly what he was thinking. "How do you know?"

"Because I told them the truth about what happened and they believed me. So just calm down, okay?" If I was someone else, I might've kissed him right then, to shut him up and also just because I want to, but I don't.

"Okay," he says. "If you say so."

"I do."

He puts his hand on top of mine, puts his fingers between mine and just stays like that. And then we don't move for the entire ride to the Capitol. Everybody else gets off there, emptying out the train car and leaving just the two of us.

"Couch?" he suggests. So we move to the large couch in front of the television screen. I'm not sure how we're supposed to sit or whatever, so I decide on sitting close next to him. But apparently, that's not my decision; he reaches over and pulls me closer, puts my legs half over his and puts his arm around me. I swear, it's almost like we're two puzzle pieces, we fit together so well.

"I think we should talk about it now," I say impulsively.

"What?"

Might as well commit to it. "About what we are. Are we still only friends?"

"Is that what you want?" he asks after a moment.

I take a deep breath, hold it in. "No," I admit in a very small voice.

He gets very quiet after that, and all I get from him is a heartbeat and his steady breaths. "No," he repeats, almost as a question.

"No."

"You want to…" He can't finish that sentence.

I listen to him stutter for a while, and despite myself, I'm amused. I mean, I know I'm incoherently nervous about this, but he's at least twice as much so. Finally, I say calmly, "Are you asking me out?"

"Are you saying yes?" he asks hesitantly.

As my answer, I reach up for him, pull his head down to mine, and kiss him. "Yes," I whisper, inches from his face, smirking at him, because I can't be too soft, even now.

He smiles, looking like a little kid for a second, and he squeezes me, accidentally nearly crushing my ribs. "So we're… dating, now," he says with barely contained cheerfulness.

"Stop. Don't get all… just stop. Yeah. We're dating," I mumble, because this is getting kind of mushy and ridiculous. "So now can I tell everybody to back off or you'll beat them up?" I ask curiously.

"Well, like who?"

"I don't know. Anybody. Gale," I add as an afterthought that isn't really an afterthought.

"I'll beat him up," he says darkly. "Say the word."

Now, this is interesting. "You don't like him? You haven't even met him," I point out.

"Yeah," he agrees, and offers no further explanation.

Whatever. I don't really want to get involved in their instant hatred of each other; it's already been established that Gale doesn't like him, for some reason. Last thing I need is to start taking sides. I'm never going to understand what boys do when they're not fighting for their lives.

And in Peeta's case, sometimes not even then, I guess.

We sit there together during the whole ride, except when I get up to get food. And Cato makes some smartass remark about my eating habits, so I threaten to break up with him. He laughs, frowns, panics, and then looks relieved when I take it back.

It occurs to me that dating him could be a lot of fun, if he lets me mess with him like this. He's back to being sweet again, not cold like he was last night. I'm still worried about that, though, so I think of the most tactful way to ask what exactly happened, what changed. Since I'm terrible with words, though, that's pretty much what I end up saying.

"Hey. What's different about you? From last night, I mean."

"I'm not tired?" he suggests. "I don't understand the question."

"You were freaking out. And now it's like nothing even happened." I shrug, which is surprisingly difficult to do leaning against him.

"I wasn't _freaking_ out…" he stalls.

But I will have none of that. "Yes, you absolutely were."

"Was not," he says stubbornly.

"Cut the bullshit. C'mon. Answer your girlfriend's question," I say, aware that I'm blatantly manipulating him. What's really astonishing is that it works.

"I don't know. I guess I needed sleep. And I didn't know if you'd be there when I got back."

"What, and you honestly expect me to believe that you were worrying about that so much that it made you… I dunno, however you were. Broken. I guess."

"I wasn't-"

"Listen, I get that you're not supposed to be like that, but we both know it happened. Doesn't mean I hate you. I just want to know. What changed? What happened?" I ask, more gently this time. "It's about the Capitol, right? Whatever you did there."

"If I say yes, will you stop asking about it? Because I'm not going to tell you," he says, and it's obvious he's not fooling around. He really isn't going to give in this time. He almost sounds angry.

"Sure," I say after a moment of thought. "No more Capitol questions. But will you at least tell me what's changed?"

He hesitates. "You've… you changed it. I didn't have you before. Now I do."

And he's right, he does have me. He's got me completely, the same way I suspect I have him. "Thanks," I say, blushing.

"Nah, it's just the truth." He shrugs. "You don't have to thank me for every nice thing I say. You should probably get used to it, actually."

"I'll do what I can," I say sarcastically, to cover how flattered I am. And he pulls me closer, settling his arm comfortably around me. We just sit there, being quiet sometimes, talking other times, and somehow, the ride doesn't feel as long with him next to me.

We get there around lunch time, during the brightest part of the day. "Listen," I say as we get off the train. "Don't fight Gale, okay? I didn't mean that when I said it."

"Okay," he nods reluctantly, and then he's looking around us, trying to see everything at once. There's really not much to see, just our train station and the mostly-deserted town, but I guess that's still weird for him. "So where're we going?" he asks, and I'm sure he's nervous. I don't blame him.

"'We're gonna find Prim, my sister. I think I know where she is."

He nods, so we go. She was spending more and more time in the bakery, last I remember, so we head there first, even though I know it's probably a really bad decision to bring Cato to the house of the boy he helped me kill. But I can't think of another option.

I don't let him too far away from me, but I don't hold his hand. It might send things over the edge; I think he gets that. But I do brief him before we go inside. "These are the Mellarks, Peeta's family. Dad's awesome, brothers are cool, but the mom's insane. Just be nice."

"Maybe I shouldn't come inside," he suggests.

But he's going to have to meet them eventually, so I don't let him get out of this, even if I really want things to be more peaceful. "It'll be okay."

"Okay," he agrees, frowning, and we go in.

Prim's there, thankfully, mostly alone, and kneading dough; she looks up at the sound of the door and gives me a huge grin, genuine and sweet. "You're back," she says with delight. Her eyes flicker over to Cato, and to her credit, she doesn't drop the smile.

"Course I am, Prim. I wouldn't leave you," I say, reassuring the both of us. She comes over to me and gives me a floury hug.

Then she looks over at Cato. After a moment of thought, she offers him her hand. "Nice to meet you," she says. "Thank you for not killing my sister."

Cato has no idea how to respond to that. He shakes her hand, though, and says, "You're welcome," he says awkwardly. "And you are…"

"Oh, this is Primrose, my little sister." Just from the way he looks at her, I can tell he's already falling for her, like everyone else inevitably does, and she isn't even a bit scared of him, which is nice not to worry about.

"I'm making cheese buns," she tells me. "I didn't even know you were coming back today, but now that I do, I'll take bring some home."

"That sounds great," I smile at her. "Is anybody in the back?"

Her face gets slightly less cheerful. "Mrs. Mellark and Ryan. Do you want me to go get them?"

"Ryan, yeah, just for a second, if he can."

"He's been worried about you," she tells me confidentially. "I told him you just needed to get away from everything for a while, but he thought you'd snapped or something."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about not calling," I say guiltily.

She shrugs. "It's fine. We knew you were safe." She skips back behind the counter and disappears into the back.

I look up at Cato while we're alone, to gauge how he's handling this. His face is blank, and he looks uncomfortable, but not too bad. "Too weird yet?" I ask him.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me," he says, and he shifts closer to me.

I don't get to answer him, because Ryan comes out. His face goes from a kind of relief to suspicious. "What's he doing here?" he asks.

"Visiting," I say nervously.

Cato speaks up. "I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "About your brother."

"Yeah?" Ryan frowns.

"Yeah." He hesitates, and then adds, "I know you shouldn't believe it, but I've… I'm different now. And I don't expect you to forgive me. So."

They stare at each other for a very long moment, and I try not to be terrified about the amount of testosterone rocketing back and forth between them. And then Ryan says reluctantly, "I guess that's fair. What's up?" he asks me.

"I just wanted to thank you, you were really great. There for me when I needed it. And taking care of Prim, that's awesome. Thanks," I say. Gratitude is awkward, even when it's completely heartfelt.

"No problem," he shrugs.

"And my offer still stands. If you want."

Ryan nods. I want to ask about how he's doing, how his parents are both doing, his family, but I know he won't answer any of that in front of Cato. So I just say, "We should talk. Some time."

"Right. Yeah. Okay," he nods. "So I'll see you around?"

"Okay." We look at each other for a second, the silence tense, and then Prim comes back in. "Where's Mom?" I ask her. "At home?"

She nods, and we turn to go, but she stops us. "Things have changed a lot since you left," she says hesitantly. "Darius… he's gone. There's a new head Peacekeeper here."

"What's his name?" I ask.

"Romulus Thread," Ryan answers darkly. "Straight out of District 2." Cato looks acutely uncomfortable. "Don't hunt anymore, that's one thing for sure."

"Don't say anything against the Capitol, either," Prim warns.

"Thanks for the warning." I'm ready to go again, but Prim has one last thing to say.

"Haymitch wants you to visit him."

"Will do," I agree, and we leave. I lead him through the town towards my house in the Victor's Village. Cato keeps close to me, and he's really good at acting like this is no big deal. "What do you think so far?" I ask, looking up at his face. It's so weird, seeing his face in my district, where it doesn't quite belong. But he's a part of every other aspect of my life. Only makes sense that he'd be here, too.

"It's… fine," he says. "I thought I said not to worry about it, though."

"Right. Because I have a history of doing exactly what people tell me to." It's only a few hundred feet to my house, so I hold my hand out to him. He takes it, looking very happy with that turn of events, and we walk the last few feet to my house together. I glance up at him one last time before opening the door; he's looking at me with something unnamable in his eyes.

"Don't want me to meet your mom?" he asks.

"Don't be stupid," I snort more confidently than I really feel, and I open the door.

The inside of the house is hectic. I know what's going on before I take three steps inside, because I've seen this scene before. Someone's hurt, and my mother's been called on to fix them up.

Several miners are in the kitchen, finishing putting someone down on the table, and Madge thunders down the stairs, drawing up short when she sees me. "Katniss," she says breathlessly. "Hey."

"What's going on?" I ask her. She's more panicky than I've ever seen her, and she's not a person I'd typically peg as easily freaked out. "Who's hurt?"

"Edan," she says, and then she almost collapses, the towels in her hand spilling all over the floor. I run forward to catch her, help her sit down on the stairs, and in my gut, I know a few things; he must be hurt very badly, thing _have_ changed a lot, and she's in love with him. She's in love with Peeta's oldest brother.

Cato kneels down and begins picking up the towels Madge dropped, not saying a word while I attempt to comfort her. "He'll be fine, my mother's the best healer in the district. What happened?"

"There's a new Peacekeeper. He caught Edan with a squirrel from Gale," she says, helplessly worried. "And it's my fault. He was trying to make me dinner; otherwise he wouldn't have done that."

"It's going to be okay. Just go sit in the living room, alright? We'll-"

"Where are those towels?" my mother says loudly, walking out of the kitchen into the front hall. There's no trace of worry from her, just hard determination. She falters for half a second when she sees Cato and me. "Talk later," she says to me. "I'm glad you're home." Cato hands her the towels. "Thank you." And then she's back in the kitchen.

"Go sit down and stay out of the way," I tell Madge, and follow Mom.

Edan's lying on the table, face down, and Gale's mother, Hazelle, is cutting off his shirt. It's good quality, machine-made, since his family's doing alright, and in the back of my mind, I wonder if his mother will be upset it's ruined. But that's just in the back of my mind, because the front of it is worried about all the blood, soaking his entire back.

Mom takes one look at his back and says immediately, "Get Prim."

It's clear she isn't talking to any of the miners or Hazelle, who are already helping her hold him down as she pours water over his wounds and he twists and turns, letting out the occasional agonized scream. In all actuality, she was talking to me – it's a well-known fact that I'm useless in these situations. But before I can even move, Cato says, "I'll go."

"You know the way?" I say, only slightly hysterical.

"Yeah." And he goes.

After a few minutes of work, Mom notices that I'm still here. "Comfort him," she says shortly, because she's got one kind of braveness in the face of death, where she can help people hold onto their loved ones, but she can't look in their eyes and see the fear she couldn't face herself.

So I sit on a chair right by his head and hesitantly put my hand on the side of his head. "Hey, Edan, it's Katniss, okay, I'm right here," I say softly. There's blood in his blonde hair, a few shades darker than his brothers', and now it's on my hand, but I'm past being worried about that.

"Hi," he says, panting, and he tries to keep it together. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face flushed, and when I look into his eyes, they're almost all pupil. "When'd you get back?"

"Like ten minutes ago."

"What a way to come home." His face tightens as my mother does something I don't let myself look at.

"I don't like this new head Peacekeeper," I say under my breath.

"Understatement," he grinds out. He wrenches one arm free of the miners holding it, and they panic, but he just grabs my hand. Apparently, that's okay, so we stay like that, with his hand wrapped around mine, holding as tightly as he can. It feels like a few of the bones in it may break, but I don't say anything.

One of the miners gives him a drink from a flask; I can smell the alcohol right away. And that's when I realize how weird it is that Hazelle and a bunch of miners are helping my mother with a city kid. Things have definitely changed around here, and I make a mental note to ask someone about this later.

"So what happened?" I ask him.

"Tried to impress a girl. Was stupid. Got caught." He squeezes my hand tighter and groans. I glance at his back for just a second, see gaping cuts and a flash of white bone.

Immediately, I look back down, use my free hand to smooth down his hair comfortingly and shush him, trying to be comforting. "It's gonna be okay. It'll be fine. We're going to fix you right back up and you can go on that date with Madge, okay?"

"You know it's her," he says in exasperation. "Great. That's the end of _that_ secret."

"It'll work out," I assure him, even though I have no idea if that's true.

"Sure it will," he says, and then he can't talk, because my mother's doing something painful to him again.

"Give him the morphling I brought back with me," I say to Mom, because it's terrible to watch him like this.

"I'm saving it," she says harshly. "Later. He'll need it more."

That's a fairly terrifying thought. Edan hears it, too, and grimaces. "Great," he mutters. "Something to look forward to."

The front door slams, and then Prim's here, instantly going to work. She's fits into the movements of the other two women working on his back right away.

"Ice water," my mother commands, and surprisingly, Cato's the one who goes to the freezer and fills a bucket. He hands it to her and watches and Prim, Hazelle, and her soak rags in it and spread them over Edan's back.

Ryan's here, too, apron still on like he forgot to take it off, which is probably what happened. He practically pushes me aside to get to his brother, pries his hand out of mine to take it himself. "What happened?" he asks first. I move back, but stay close enough to listen. Cato comes and stands close to me, right behind me.

"I'm an idiot, got caught with poached game," Edan says tightly.

"From Gale?" Ryan says, sounding angry. "Why isn't he here on this table?"

"Didn't give him up."

Everything makes so much more sense now, and at the same time, less sense than before. Edan protected one of us, so now we're protecting him. What doesn't fit is why he did that. Gale wasn't that popular with the boys in town; they didn't like how he took their girls without even trying. But that can wait till later.

They finish cleaning off the blood and start stitching together the cuts. Unfortunately, that means they have to pull his skin together in places, just long enough to get everything together, long enough to be excruciatingly painful.

And that's when I have to leave. I don't care how many games I'm in – I'll never be okay with hearing someone scream. Cato comes with me, sitting next to me on the couch. He doesn't have to ask me if I'm okay – it's obvious I'm not. So instead, he sits next to me and holds me close, like he did in his district, arms around my waist.

Madge is in a chair, doing her best not to cry; she wipes her eyes hurriedly when she sees us. I almost feel weird about her seeing us like this, but then I decide that if I can't be myself around Madge, then I'll have no chance with my family. So I let myself be comforted by Cato's closeness and warmth, worming one of my hands between his.

"Are you two…" Madge starts to ask, and then stops. "Sorry. None of my business."

"No, it's fine. We're…" I take a deep breath. "Yes. We're… a couple." It sounds stupid any way I say it. It's not like we're those stupid, trite cutesy pairs I've seen in school. We've fought together, faced each others' demons. He's what Gale used to be for me. Again, no words seem appropriate. But this is the least I can admit to.

I glance up at Cato to see his response – he almost smiles at me for a second, then he looks at Madge. "Yep. We are."

"Good for you," she says, some combination of bitter and resigned. "Weird. But good, I guess." I don't know anyone else who would've continued, but she's Madge, so she does. "You're sure you're not going to kill each other? Habit or something."

I snort. "Pretty sure." But that's slightly uncomfortable to answer. He's different now, he's changed. I wasn't really able to figure out a way to say it – he can barely express just part of it. It's a weird thing that nobody else would believe, even sounds ridiculous in simplest terms.

He didn't mean it? Untrue. He didn't want to? Untrue. He changed? Yes, because I changed him, but even I'm not cocky enough to say that. And we're not the type to do cutesy "we saved each other" type statements. So we just don't explain it.

"Good for you," Madge says, and I can't tell if she's sarcastic or not. "I always thought you were going to end up with Gale," she says as an afterthought, then adds to that, "Sorry."

I'm stunned. Cato doesn't seem to be, but that didn't even occur to me. Gale? "Why would you think that?" I say faintly.

"The way he looks at you. He ignored all the other girls at school, I just thought… none of my business, though, sorry," she shakes her head, clasping her hands together. Her knuckles go white with tension.

Cato's arms tighten around me, but he doesn't say anything. I have to make up the answer. "This is all news to me," I finally say. "I'm not exactly on good terms with him right now, anyways, so. I've gotta figure that situation out."

"Can I asked what happened?" she says curiously after a second.

Normally, I'd say no. But the boy she likes is the one screaming in the kitchen, so I say loudly over the sound, "He said I didn't belong here, and that being in the games changed me. And he tried to throw stuff in my face, about him or whatever." I motion towards Cato.

"Wow," she says, her voice shaking, because we're pretending like we can't hear what's going on just through the wall, but we can.

"Yeah. So I guess he doesn't feel however you thought he did."

"I guess," she says, but she doesn't seem exactly convinced. And then she jerks again, because we can clearly hear my mother shouting over Edan to hold him down.

"Get that boy in here," Mom says loudly. Cato and I meet eyes. I nod once, and he gets up, walks into the kitchen. "Hold him here," my mother says, and then nobody talks much.

"You can go home," I say after watching Madge dissolve into tears again, hearing Edan in pain. "We'll go and get you when he's more… quiet."

But she shakes her head. "No. I should be here for this. It's my fault."

"Don't think like that. You'll go crazy. I would know."

She looks up at me, realization dawning in her eyes – right, Peeta, I killed my district partner. Has everyone else forgotten that but me? I guess it's different when you're there. "So how should I think like?" she asks desperately.

"Mostly, I try not to think at all," I admit, aware that it sounds terrible. "I'm sorry. But that's my best advice. You just can't think like that."

She nods. "I guess I'm lucky. At least he'll get better."

"Yep."

Madge makes no excuse for anything either of us said. Things are different now – we both know it, and now it's time to deal with it. "You really like him?" she finally asks.

I know she means Cato. "I really do," I agree. "I understand him." I want to say he's a good person, but that's not exactly a claim I can make, not even one I think I'm allowed to make. I do understand him, though.

She doesn't have a response for that. I guess I wouldn't, either. Finally, there's no more sound from the kitchen, and the miners and Hazelle make their way out the door. Prim comes out to us and says grimly, "He'll be okay after a little bit. You can come talk to him."

Madge jumps up excitedly and runs to the kitchen, while I follow more slowly with Prim. And I walk in on Cato helping my mother spread ice over the bandages on Edan's back. Ryan's standing at the sink, drinking something from a mug. And I see the way Madge hangs onto his hand, how she cries and touches his face, and how he looks at her like she's the center of his world. I hope I've never looked like that.

My mother gives Edan a little bit of morphling, enough to take the edge off without the hallucinations, and then she insists on taking Madge back home. Something about not wallowing in guilt any longer. I guess she speaks from experience there, too. Prim goes with them, promising to tell the Mellark parents what's going on.

"You can stay here all night," Mom tells Ryan. "We'll tell your parents. But they should stay in town. We don't want the Peacekeepers to get suspicious."

Ryan nods, shrugs. "Whatever. That's fine."

I can tell my mother's about to say something else, but she stops, then turns and escorts Madge out the door. And that's when I think about how she's also the kind of brave that can walk calmly past Peacekeepers she knows could punish her for helping Edan, but not strong enough to face a heartbroken girl without Prim there, too.

"Enough excitement here for you?" I ask Cato.

"Yep," he agrees. "Does this happen a lot around here?"

"Not before those district 2 guys got here. No offence," Ryan adds reluctantly, throwing a look at Cato. "The ones before weren't so brutal, though."

"New training since we won. They're angry about us both living," Cato says.

"Same here, apparently," Edan comments. "You really screwed this up big time."

"I know," I say in a small voice. Cato shoots a dark glare at Edan, which Ryan catches.

"How about you two leave for a while," he suggests. "Until some of this… wears off."

Good idea. "Sounds good. We'll be back soon. Don't answer the door," I warn, and they nod. Before any more tension develops, we leave out the back door and head for the woods.

I've noticed that Cato does this thing, wherever he goes, this paranoid thing where he looks in every direction every minute or something. He does it so subtly that it'd be easy to miss, except that I'm specifically looking for it. I need to know how much I need to be on guard. He seems to be plenty wary for the both of us, though.

We make it to the fence and duck under into the woods. "Why're we here?" he asks.

"Good place to get away where no one will see us." I shrug.

"What about that Gale kid?" He glares around us suspiciously. "Isn't this where-"

"Gale can go fall of a cliff," I begin harshly. But before I can continue, I pause, because there's a fire in the distance, by the abandoned house, if I'm not mistaken. And that means Gale's here, counting on me to come out here and see this and visit him. And then he's gonna expect me to let him make amends, let him work his way back into my good graces. That's not gonna happen.

I start to walk faster towards the fire, and Cato follows. "Is that a fire?" he asks.

Figures he'd catch that, too. "Yep," I say angrily. Almost in response to my getting closer, I'm getting angry all over again, and hurt again, because Gale's an idiot, an idiot that I still completely understand.

Cato doesn't try to discuss things with me, which is great, because I'm not in the mood. I do take his hand, though, to steady myself, and to remind myself that I'm not alone if Gale and I don't come out of this friends.

When we emerge into the clearing, I've known for a while that it's definitely Gale there by the small flames, sitting on the ground by it. He's got cheese rolls in a bag, I can smell them, and I almost waver for a second. But then I come to my senses: cheesy bread doesn't mean he wasn't a jerk.

He looks up at the sound of our approach; happiness to shock to anger. "Gale," I start to say, but I don't get a chance to finish.

"What's he doing here?" he demands.

"How is that any of your business?" I say, narrowing my eyes at him. Anger flares up inside of me, and suddenly it's a lot easier to stay mad at him.

"He's involved with you. That makes it my business," Gale says fiercely.

"I'm my own person," I retort. "It's my own life, not yours."

"I thought we shared stuff. Isn't that what best friendship is?" he asks, but it's not a question. It's him being an asshole.

"Funny. I thought it was not getting stupid and selfish, and lying about what Prim said."

"Can we talk about this without _him_ here?" Gale says sullenly, jerking his thumb at Cato.

For some reason, that makes me completely furious, so I do something I wasn't planning on. "In case you haven't noticed-" I hold up our intertwined hands. "-he's not just some random person."

Gale's eyes darken, and he looks very dangerous. "You're not…"

"Yeah. We're dating. Not that you care," I say. It feels so good to throw that in his face.

But then he suddenly makes a run for us, crossing the few feet quickly and jumping on Cato, punching him in the face with a fury that scares me. And Cato doesn't fight back; he blocks as many hits as he can, but no retaliation. Finally, he gets Gale off him, stands up and tries to get away, but Gale gets him in a headlock and finally, they stop moving.

"What. Are. You. DOING?" I say, voice shaking in rage. I don't know who he is anymore. He's being so awful; it doesn't even make sense. "And you, protect yourself," I say to Cato, a mix of confused and mad, worried about the blood on his face and Gale's hands.

A savage smile grows on his face for a second, and then in one movement, he flips Gale over his shoulder, onto the ground. And while he's there, Cato kicks him in the side, hard, and I hear something crack. He's ready to do more, I can tell, but he looks at me, who's slightly horrified and still angry, and he stops. "You said not to fight him," he mutters to me.

"Yeah, well I didn't think he'd be the one starting it. What the hell was that?" I demand of Gale, ignoring the fact that he's twisting on the ground, holding his side. "I'm not allowed to date anyone? Is that what you're trying to tell me? That's bullshit, by the way."

Gale pulls himself onto all fours. "No, that's not what I meant to do. I'm… sorry." I can't see his face as he says those words, but he seems sincere enough.

I don't care. "Oh, you're sorry? You think that's enough to get you off the hook for everything that you've done? Maybe it was, some time ago. But right now, it's nowhere near close to fixing what you've broken. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah." He coughs, takes a deep breath. "You've made that clear. You and your boyfriend." He grimaces at the word. "So I make a mistake and you go off on a romantic vacation. I'll keep that in mind."

"Don't try to turn that around on me. I went off to figure out how to deal with this new you who's a complete ass. I trusted you," I say angrily, desperately, tears in my eyes.

That stops his glaring. "Katniss…" he says, already feeling guilty. "Don't you still trust me?"

I hesitate. "I want to."

"Listen, I'm sorry. I freaked out. Both times. You changed, and I didn't know if you'd still want to spend time with me anymore. You were slipping away, Katniss, and that scared me. I'm sorry."

"And what about jumping him?" I ask suspiciously, because what he said is exactly what I wanted to hear, and I know I can't trust that.

He shrugs. "I'm a big brother. Overprotective. What can I say?"

"No, no. None of that trite bullshit. Explain," I glare.

Cato wipes some of the blood dripping out of his nose, smearing it over his cheek. Like I've noticed before, he doesn't seem to register the pain of it, although I'm sure it's gotta hurt. He's got a black eye developing, maybe two, and he spits blood onto the ground. And he's just watching us fight, staring at both of us silently in turn.

Gale sighs in exasperation. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened, I just… I saw red and I couldn't control myself, okay, I'm sorry."

"Why? You can't possibly hate him that much. You haven't even met him," I point out, crossing my arms, but I'm significantly less furious than before.

Gale laughs bitterly, rolls his eyes. "Yeah. That didn't exactly matter." He works his way to his feet and looks at me, refusing to even acknowledge that Cato's there.

"Why not?"

He almost cuts me off with his impatience answer. "Because I like you Katniss. Five years I've liked you, and you know him for what, a couple weeks? That's not fair," he insists, somewhat petulantly. But, terrifyingly, he has a point.

I don't answer for a second while I process this development. Madge had been right. I was the crazy one. And Gale… I think back to all the time we spent together, all the girls at home, how they thought he liked me and I always thought they were delusional. But they'd been right. "You… like me," is my very coherent response.

"Yeah." Gale rubs the back of his head. "But now that you've got your fancy new District 2 boyfriend, I guess I missed my chance."

He didn't have a chance. I never would've dated him. He's my hunting partner, my friend. Not anything like Cato. I've never wanted to kiss him, not like with Cato. "I guess you did," is all I say. "But why does it have to be like this? Why can't you just… be like before?" I finish lamely, completely aware of how stupid that sounds.

"I don't know," Gale says flatly. "Why can't you be in love with me?"

Cato shifts uncomfortably, and I realize how terrible this must be for him, but he hasn't said a word, hasn't even barely moved. I move over towards him, close to his side to reassure him, but that hurts gale. I'm caught in the worst situation ever. "I don't know, Gale, but I'm not," I say simply. "And I'm sorry."

"Nah, I'm the one who should be sorry," he says after a second. And then he just leaves, turns and walks away while I'm trying to figure out what to say to him. I never used to have to think about what I said to him.

"That was less than ideal," I finally observe, swallowing hard so I don't cry.

Cato doesn't say anything, spitting blood again, so I turn to look at him. His face is hard, mangled, but it's nothing like the first time I saw it like that. Because this time, I know what his lips feel like on mine, how comforting his arms are around me in the middle of the night, how I fit into him like I'm supposed to.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him curiously.

"Do you really want to know?" he says. He's almost being sulky again, except there's something in the way he looks at me that makes me think it's an honest question.

"Yeah, I do."

"Do you love him? Are you going to…"

"Am I going to what?" I prompt after a second, reaching out for his hands and taking them both. One's still swollen from what his mother did to it, and his arms have all these bruises from where Gale hit him. Our linked hands hang between us, but somehow he can't look at me. That seems to happen a lot.

"Leave. For him."

"No. No, if I wanted him, I would've had him already," I shake my head.

"It makes sense, though. I mean, he's your best friend. That… that means something," he admits grudgingly.

"Why are you saying this?" I ask. "I've made my choice. If there was ever any chance… no. No, he ruined it, and on top of that, he's like my brother."

"Are you sure?" he asks once more, like he can't help it. "What if he didn't ruin it, though?"

I don't know the answers to those questions, don't particularly care to know, so I shut us both up by stretching up and kissing him. His lips taste like coppery blood, but I don't care. He lets go of my hands, and then his arms wrap around me. "Is that answer enough for you?" I ask after we break apart.

He looks down at me, smiles, and says, "I guess so."

"I'm sorry this happened." I hold him close, my head on his chest. "I didn't think about him being here. Are you hurt?"

Clearly, the answer should be yes, judging from the blood and swelling. Predictably, that's not his response. "I'm fine."

"Let's go back. I can patch up your face," I suggest.

"Sure," he shrugs. "Whatever you want."

The woods have been ruined for me at this point, so yeah, this is what I want. "Probably shouldn't be out here for too long, anyways. The Peacekeepers could find us."

"Or turn on the fence again."

I don't know why I didn't think of that. If that happens, though, Gale could get trapped out here. We should warn him. "Gale," I say out loud, looking where he went.

"Do you want me to go look for him?"

"No. If Gale's hiding, you'll never find him. He's better than me at this wilderness stuff. Let's just go back now." He nods, but before we separate, I look him dead in the eyes and say, "I'm not leaving for him. Alright? That's not going to change."

"Okay," he agrees, and I only hope he actually believes me.


	20. Chapter 19

So we go. He moves quietly through the woods, from all the training, I'm sure, but not quite quiet silently, not like someone who's grown up here. He avoids the Peacekeepers like a champ, though, moving us through back alleys and forest edges to get to our house. We slip in through the back door, Edan's back looking newly horrifying at first glance.

Prim's talking when we first walk in; she stops when she sees me, and runs to hug me. "You're safe," she says in relief, and then she hugs Cato, too. I'm not sure who's more surprised, me or him. Awkwardly, he pats her back.

"What happened?" he asks.

"They're going to turn on the fence. And the new head Peacekeeper is out looking for more people to use as examples. Mom had me come here to make sure you're in here and safe. I'm going to call her now." She runs for the phone and starts to dial, but I'm not paying much attention to her.

Cato and I meet eyes, one thought clearly on both of our minds. "Gale," he says for me.

"You can't help him now," Edan speaks up from the table, clearly eavesdropping. "Don't bother. It's his problem."

"Stop," Ryan says, tired. "You decided to take the fall. Don't get pissed about it now."

"Just saying," Edan mutters rebelliously, but he keeps his mouth shut after that.

"Where is he, the woods?" Ryan asks. Cato and I both nod. "Why'd you leave him there? Why didn't he come back with you?"

Neither of us know how to answer; we look at each other, then down at the ground.

"Is that from him?" Ryan asks, motioning at Cato, his bruised face and hands.

"Yep," Cato says blandly.

Ryan looks at me, and I get the feeling he knows exactly why they were fighting. But he doesn't say anything. And then neither of us have a chance to continue this uncomfortable conversation, because Prim gets off the phone and pounces on Cato. She makes him sit down on the floor against the wall, since all the chairs are occupied or full of stuff, and then she cleans up his face and hands.

I don't get in the way of their little moment, but I sit next to him against the wall and watch the two of them. She treats him like she treats everybody, kind, sweet, and gentle, but that's different to him – I can tell from how he's acting.

He's been gentle to me before, but never the way he's treating her. Everything he does is extremely careful – it's crazy, he's not even making any fast movements. Like she's some kind of baby bird and he doesn't want to crush her. The two of them are almost adorable together. It only makes me like him more.

Prim fills us in after Cato's cleaned and bandaged; the new squad of Peacekeepers are on a rampage, taking prisoners left and right for minor infractions of little rules nobody cared about before now. They probably won't arrest the victors, but my mother wants us all inside until she gets home.

We all stay in the kitchen for no apparent reason. Edan can't move, Ryan won't, but the other three of us have no real reason not to go off somewhere. We just don't. After Prim finishes with Cato, I move closer to him and his arm ends up around me. Prim takes up a place on his other side, asking him a million questions about what it's like in his district because she learned a while ago that I'm bad at description.

Cato's not, though. He's actually surprisingly really good at it. The places he describes aren't any I visited with him – no training center or decadent house with its cold inhabitants. The things he talks about are unlike anything I saw while I was there; stores full of polished stone sculptures, barrels of pebbles streaked through with bright colors, mountainside homes surrounded by pine trees. I don't think he's making any of this up; that's not like him. But I'm officially super curious.

Prim gets up to take care of Edan, and I seize my chance to talk to Cato. "And what exactly are these place you're talking about?" I ask in an undertone.

He shrugs. "I don't know. Places in my district."

"Yeah? Where? I didn't see any of them."

"Well, they're not in the city. They're out where I grew up."

"You didn't grow up in the city?"

"No. My mom and dad were miners. I moved to the city when I was eight to train. And then when Sophia and Silas got old enough to be volunteered, they moved, too."

This is all new information to me. I frown, unsure if I understand this. "Wait. So you moved to the city alone? When you were eight?"

"Yeah," he says, watching me carefully, because he can tell I'm having trouble processing some of this but he evidently doesn't understand why. "A lot of kids do that. You can live with the other tributes, there's like a dorm or something."

So much makes sense now, so much of his personality and how he acts. And that wake up he did in the training facility, that has to be something from his childhood of training. It's not like he had any kind of childhood aside from that. And it's even crazier that he's somehow broken out of that whole lifestyle.

"Is something wrong?" he asks me. Prim comes back and sits next to him; she looks expectantly at me for my answer.

"Nope. Nothing wrong," I decide to say, and I reach over and punch him in the shoulder, because I have this crazy urge to just hug him or something. And Cato, being Cato, doesn't even seem to feel it. He just smiles at me.

"Get a room," Edan mutters loudly.

"Stop," Ryan sighs at him. "Katniss didn't do anything."

"Yeah, whatever," his brother rolls his eyes.

"I did, though," I speak up. "It's fine, I don't care if you're mad at me. I mean, I care, but I'm not too upset about… you have the right to… damn it," I finish in a sigh. "Do you know what I'm trying to say?"

Ryan's doing his best not to smile, same with Cato, Prim giggles, and Edan looks reluctantly amused. "I guess," he says. "If I could do it over, though, I'd think twice about sticking up for that Gale, though. He was a total jerk," he says with feeling.

I can't defend him, but I won't say anything bad about him, so I just stay quiet. "Know what you mean," Cato says, and coughs, wiping blood on his sleeve.

"You'd be fine if you'd fought back," I point out.

"You said not to," he shrugs.

I make a face at him. He squeezes me close to him for a second, and I catch Ryan looking at both of us. I can't tell if he's upset or not. "Are you two…" he starts to ask.

"Yep," I cut him off. "We are." I'm aware how terrible that looks, that I've just moved on without a second thought, but that's not how it went, and I'm hoping they'll understand that, somehow, maybe. But I won't apologize for it. The only person whose opinion I really care about is Prim's, and she only seems happy for us. She can't stop smiling, at least, which I figure is a good sign.

And Peeta's brothers both have the same expression, a sort of acceptance of the inevitable. "Good for you," Ryan says after a second, but he can't quite look at me the same. I guess I understand that.

"Good for you," Edan echoes glumly.

"So you're not worried about Gale at all, Katniss?" Prim asks me after a long silence.

Right. She still has no reason to hate him. "No, I'm worried," I hedge, because although I'm maybe sort of worried, like in the back of my mind, the thing I'm thinking most about is Cato, how well he's fitting into what's going on here.

Prim gives me a not amused look. "I'm not stupid. I know you're mad at him," she says knowledgably. "And it makes sense, too. But you're not even a little worried that he'll get caught on the other side of the fence?"

"Yeah, I'm worried about it, but it's not the first thing on my mind. Gale can take care of himself, he's a big boy now," I say firmly. "He's the idiot that went running off, anyways."

"Whoa. Didn't see that one coming," Edan comments.

I'm kind of annoyed with him now. "Do you have something to say?" I ask him.

"Yeah, actually, I do." Ryan tries to stop him, but Edan's having none of that. "No, listen. I got punished for that guy. Excuse me for not liking him. And I never thought you two would turn on each other. That's all."

"Why's that?" I frown.

"You two have been joined at the hip for years. Everybody knows that."

I didn't know that. Next to me, Cato shifts uncomfortably, and I nudge his shoulder with mine. "Yeah, well, we're not anymore. Because he's an idiot," I say sharply.

"You don't have to tell me that. I always thought the guy was a bit of an asshole, myself," Edan comments, and although he's been abrasive and a jerk, I think he means this, and more than that, he's not just saying it to hurt me.

"Yeah, well…" I shrug, because Gale's done and said some horrible things, but if that's him, then I don't even know what I am. "I guess we've all got our problems," I finally sigh, and let Cato pull me closer than before. He knows exactly what I'm talking about.

We get food after a few hours, a mix of stuff from the Capitol and food from the woods. It tastes so good to me, after all that made-to-order crap. Prim helps Edan sit up enough to eat well enough, and the whole thing feels almost like eating at during the games. Maybe that's just the fear, though, the feeling of being chased.

After that, we don't do much talking. I guess I run out of things to say, and the tension is getting to us. Definitely to me, at least. Ever since Prim brought it up, Gale getting caught has been weighing on my mind. Ryan falls asleep leaning back in his chair at some point, gently snoring. Edan seems to have run out of toxic comments for the time being, so he's quiet – I think he's asleep. And Prim subsides into silence, snuggling into Cato's other side like she's known him forever and eventually falling asleep. I kind of end up lost in thought for a while, but when I do look over at her, just to check on her, his arm's around her, and he's looking at her face intently.

"So you two are getting along," I observe.

"I guess we are." He doesn't even look at me, so entranced by her. I can understand why – she's kind of angelic looking, though I never really think about it. And really, she looks more like his sister than mine, just on looks alone.

"You like her?" I ask, mostly joking.

He answers seriously, though. "Yeah. She's… different. Than my sister."

"That's for sure. But how do you mean?"

"I don't know, my sister is all… well, she's more like me. And _she's_ more like you," he says motioning at Prim. "I guess that's it."

"Fair enough." It's getting dark outside, and I'm getting worried about why Mom hasn't called yet. "Should I call the mayor's house?" I ask nobody in particular.

"No. If those dicks are anywhere near there, they'll get nosy. Guarantee. And I don't really feel like risking my ass again. Not much of it left, to be honest."

So Edan's not asleep after all. "Good point," I say, trying not to think about how much he just heard while we were talking. Great. "You wouldn't happen to have some super-secret knowledge about the Peacekeepers, would you?" I ask Cato, mostly joking

"No. I didn't go that route. But…"

"But?" I prompt.

"This same type of thing happened with eleven. They had a victor and then security cracked down. Might mean something," Cato says. Again, his encyclopedic knowledge of the games is coming in handy.

"Great, so we'll be nothing but slave labor in five years. Good to know."

Edan's obnoxious, but he has a point. "I won't let that happen," I say firmly.

Cato looks at me sharply, but he doesn't argue. Edan snorts. "Whatever. Even you can't face off with all of them. Though believe me, I'd want to see that."

"Don't give her ideas," Cato says.

I'm not positive, but I think that's offensive. "Hey," I start to complain.

"Don't take it like that," he sighs. "The last thing you need is the thought that you can actually lead a revolution. You can't do that. They'd kill you."

"Alright, alright. No revolution," I say.

"Good." He sounds relieved.

"For now."

"Oh, stop it," he says affectionately, and even though we're in danger and there's an injured boy on the table in front of us, I don't think I've ever been so happy.

Mom walks in a little after midnight, worried sick, but we're all okay. Edan's finally asleep, I'm dozing a bit, and Cato's wide awake. I hear him talking to her, but don't bother to let either of them know I'm awake.

"Are they okay?" she asks him quietly.

"Yeah. Prim kept his back clean or whatever." I'm sure it's just my being half-asleep, but it almost seems like he says her name differently, like it's special.

"Oh, good. Anything happen?"

"We went to the woods. Fought with Gale. And he's caught on the other side of the fence."

I hear her gasp. "You're sure?"

"Pretty damn."

"Oh no."

A long silence.

"Did he do that to your face?"

"Yeah. Prim took care of that, too."

"Can you get her in bed for me?"

"Yeah." He gets up, and I almost fall before I stick my arm out in time. I open my eyes in time to see him pick Prim up like a baby and carry her towards the stairs. He comes back for me, pulls me to my feet.

I open my eyes, blink rapidly to bring things into focus. "What's going on?" I ask.

"Go to bed," my mother tells me softly.

"No." I shake my head. "Not until I know if Gale's alright."

"He'll be fine overnight," she reassures me. "Go."

I don't agree to it, but I don't disagree. "Will you wake me up as soon as there's news?"

"Of course."

I look to Cato. "You'll tell me?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he says, glancing at my mother, checking the answer.

"I'm not going up to my room," I inform them both.

"Then the couch," Mom says firmly. "Just a few hours."

She makes sense, unfortunately. I don't want to be exhausted the next time I see Gale. That won't help anything. So I go lie down on the couch and do my best to fall asleep. It takes almost an hour for me to stop overhearing Cato's and my mother's conversation in the kitchen and close my eyes for good.

They lied to me, though; they don't wake me up. I only wake up when I hear shouting outside. Immediately, I sit straight up, look around the room. Mom's at the window, peering through the edge of one curtain at the commotion outside. "Mom, what's going on?" I ask, standing and walking over to the window, but she holds me away.

"Nothing. Go stay with Edan."

I know that calm tone. It's the one she uses on patients, when something's about to go horribly wrong. "Gale's out there, isn't he," I say, increasingly frantic. "Mom. Don't lie to me."

"Get in the kitchen, with Prim and the boys," she says, practically begging me to listen.

But I stopped listening to her years ago. I avoid her hands, get to the window, and rip back part of the curtain. And there's Gale being paraded through the town by four Peacekeepers, one side of his face bruised already, his arms cuffed behind his back.

Things get blurry after that. I scream his name, lunge for the door, but Mom holds me back until Ryan and Cato run to me, each taking one arm and dragging me back. I fight them, harder than I've ever fought anyone before, because no matter what happened, that's my best friend out there. I need to get to him.

Their strength is undeniable, though. I can't get free, no matter how hard I fight. Ryan's shocked into letting go after I dig my nails into his hand, but Cato won't, no matter what. Even when I claw at his arms, kick him, hit him. All the time I'm screaming at him to let me go, let me get to Gale, but he stops me by clamping his hand over my mouth, and he doesn't move it, even though I bite his fingers as hard as I can.

He somehow works one arm around me in a giant bear hug, holding my arms down at my sides, the other one still covering my mouth, then yanks me down to the ground with him so he can wraps his legs over mine so I can't escape. Only then, when I know I'm not getting away, do I dissolve into hysterical tears.

Comfortingly, he shushes me, holding me like that until I stop fighting and just cry. When he's sure I'm not going to try to escape, he lets me go, turns me around and holds me in a hug now. "I need to be there," I repeat, getting slightly more coherent each time I say it.

"Calm down," he says authoritatively. "Nothing's going to happen until you're calm."

Obediently, I calm down, gradually breathing correctly again. I notice Ryan sitting on the couch, blood drying on his hands, and feel a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry," I say to him.

He shrugs. "I get it."

I turn back to Cato, see how much more blood there is on his face, arms, and hands. I guess he can read me, as usual, because he talks before I can. "Don't worry about it. It's okay. I've had worse."

I still feel terrible about it. I pull him closer again, wrapping my arms around the back of his neck and taking a deep breath. "I'm still sorry. Where's Gale?"

Both boys exchange apprehensive looks – scared I'll go nuts again, probably – but Cato answers. "Outside. Town square. Mandatory meeting in five minutes. If you didn't calm down, then your mom was going to sedate you."

"Good to know." I raise my eyebrows, trying to cover my panic.

"Yeah. Will you be okay out there?" he asks.

"I'll have to be."

"You don't… you don't know what they're going to do to him," he says, as both a question and a statement. "You don't get it."

"No. What is it?"

He doesn't answer, instead saying to my mom at the window, "She can't go out there."

"I can, and I will," I say, but nobody's paying any attention to me.

"She has to, they'll check the houses," Mom says, peering out the windows again.

"It'll kill her," Cato says with certainty. "There has to be another way."

There isn't. They take me out to the town square still debating in whispers about what to do. Edan's allowed to stay in the house with Prim to care for him, but all of the rest of us have to leave. Cato won't let me more than a foot from him, one arm over my chest in either a protective way or a restrictive way; I can't tell which.

"Katniss, listen to me," he says seriously when we're in the town square. "Don't scream, alright? Whatever you do, don't."

"You're scaring me."

"That's not over by a long shot," he mutters, and then I catch a glimpse of what's on the platform in the front of the square, where I volunteered. Gale's tied between two posts, his shirt off, and the new Head Peacekeeper, Romulus, has something in his hand. But then the people in front of me shift again, blocking my view.

"What's going on? Cato, tell me what's going on." He won't. "Mom. Mom, tell me, please." I'm begging now, crying, because I think I know, but she won't tell me, either. "Ryan," I start, but he shakes his head once.

None of them will answer me, but I don't really need it. I know what's going to happen, and Cato was right. I can't watch it.

So I let him hold me against his chest, burying my face in his clothes. He covers my ears, too, as much as he can, but he can't protect me from everything. I still hear the crack of the whip, the whispers and gasps of the crowd. I manage to hold it together for a while, through most of the punishment, but then I hear Gale groan after a blow, and I've lost it.

I break free of Cato in a burst of superhuman wiley strength and push my way to the front of the crowd. His back, God, his back – it's worse than Edan's, just a slab of raw meat, and I don't know how he's made it this long. How I have, even.

But I can't do it anymore. "Stop!" I scream at the edge of the stage.

Romulus smirks at me. "Someone has to pay," he says smugly. "It's only fair."

"Hasn't he paid enough? Let him go."

"I don't think so." He shakes his head. "Going past the fence is a serious offence, it can't just be ignored."

"I think it's safe to say you haven't ignored it." I try not to be so aware of Gale's torn-up back, just outside of my view, but it's there, weighing on me, and I can't think straight.

"Listen, missy. Someone has to take these lashes. He's got about a dozen left."

A dozen more would kill him. "I'll take them," I say without thinking.

"No!" Cato's up at my side in what feels like seconds. "No. I will."

Romulus looks at both of us, and I can tell this is giving him sick pleasure. "How cute," he says. I've never hated anything as much as I hate his smarmy face. "Aren't you enthusiastic. It's adorable."

"Don't," Cato says, his voice low and deadly. "Take him off. Put me on. Five extra lashes. That's the rules, straight from the handbook."

Romulus arches one eyebrow. "Somebody knows his way around a rulebook." He revels in his moment for a second, and then snaps at two of the other Peacekeepers, points at Cato. "You heard the victor. We've gotta honor his wishes."

Suddenly, it hits me what's going to happen. "No, Cato, don't do this," I say to him.

He shakes his head. "We both know it has to be me," he says. "Anything for family, right?"

Right. Since Gale's supposed to be my cousin, and he's half-dead. "I don't deserve you," I shake my head. "Not like this."

"Other way around." He almost smiles at me.

And then I'm being carried off the stage and he's being held down by three Peacekeepers, a fourth one ripping his shirt off. Gale's untied roughly, dropped into the arms of his mother, and Cato's tied down in his place. And then the whip cracks down on his shoulders for the first time.

I don't scream; no matter what he says, he's doing this for me, and I know it. The very least I can do is be here, watch it happen.

It's hard, though. Every blow makes me flinch, even though he barely twitches a muscle. And underneath the new the bloody welts, there's all of his old scars, ones I haven't seen before. If I'm not mistaken, it looks like he's been whipped before, harder, enough to leave thick white lines over his back. And there's slices from something big clawing him, an exit wound from the bullet that went in around the front of his stomach, other scars I can't begin to think of explanations for.

So I try not to think. I just watch, hands clenched into fists, and bite back all my screams. If he can be quiet, so can I. I stand there until Romulus stalks away, furious at his fun being messed with, leaving Cato tied to the posts.

People filter away, sickened and quietly scared; they won't stick around any longer than necessary. I run up onto the platform, untie him and let his arms fall to his sides. He doesn't try to stand, so I kneel next to him, put my hand on the back of his neck, one of the few places I can reach that isn't hurt, and do my best not to look directly at his back.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Ridiculous question.

"I will be," he says after a second, his voice thick. "Is he?"

"I don't know." I glance at the retreating crowd; several miners are carrying Gale toward my house. "Why do you care? He beat your face in a day ago."

"I don't like him. But you do. And I'm kind of done with people dying for now, y'know?" He hauls himself to his feet, takes a second to steady himself. I pick up his shirt from the floor and give it to him.

"How bad is your back?" I ask, looking. I get a glimpse of split skin, blood, and purple bruising, then he turns to block my view, puts on his shirt.

"Bad," he says. "But I'll survive. Come on." He takes my hand and takes several steps towards the stairs.

"I'll have Prim look at your back or something. Or Mom," I say, looking at his face anxiously, but he doesn't seem to feel anything.

"Don't," he says. "They'll be busy. He got at least thirty. If he makes it through this, he'll never be the same."

"How do you know so much about this?" I ask. Not sure I want the answer.

"It's more common at home. Happens a lot."

"To you?" He stumbles, almost goes down. I put my hand on his back to steady him, accidentally make him flinch, and my hand comes away bloody. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Yeah, to me sometimes. To everybody."

Not for the first time, I realize he had an insane childhood that I don't know the half of, probably don't want to know. "Oh," I say, and I hold his hand tighter.

We get inside and it's like a flashback of yesterday; everyone's moving everywhere, carrying Edan out to the couch, getting Gale's limp body on the table. Women are filing in with buckets of ice from their houses, piling them on the counter. Cato won't let me too close to the kitchen; he holds me around the waist, and I don't fight too hard, because I don't want to hurt him.

"Will you at least let me look at your back?" I say. I can't just stand around in the front hall while this happens.

He hesitates, and I remember that he's been trying to hide his scars from me. "I'll be okay," he says. "You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to, I want to."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He nods after a second. "Okay."

I make a break for the kitchen. "I need supplies," I say convincingly.

"I'll get them for you. Go to your room, I'll be right up there."

He's not going to let me do anything else, so I obey. Anxiously, I wait for him, sitting on the side of the bed. He's up here in under five minute with water, bandages, antibacterial things, sticky things to hold skin together. He puts it all on the bed, sits down, and doesn't move for a second.

"Your shirt has to come off," I say gently.

"I know." After several more seconds, he reaches up and pulls the shirt back off again. It's spotted with blood, in quantities that make me seriously worried. But that doesn't stop me – I take his arms and turn him around.

It's bad. Not as bad as Gale or Edan, but still painful. Long reddish-purple welt, split open in some places and oozing dark blood. That's what I take care of first, the blood. I clean it off with a wet rag. He doesn't even flinch.

"Am I hurting you?" I ask after several minutes of him not saying a thing.

"Uh. I guess… well, yes, but that's… it's okay," he says. It's pretty obvious that he doesn't understand this question.

"If you're sure." Something about it still feels weird about him not seeming to feel this, though, and I don't like it. I do my best to put bandages on what's bleeding, stick everything together in a way that'll stay. Now that the blood's gone, though, I can see his scars, which is almost worse. After everything's clean and bandaged, I don't move, looking at the marks on his back and shoulders, the bad ones, ones I haven't seen before.

"Please. Don't," he says softly. I think he can feel me examining him.

"Don't what?" I can't stop staring at the claw marks that stretch from his hip to the opposite armpit, like the ones on both our faces, only deeper and thicker.

"Don't look at me like that. A few scars aren't a big deal."

He's right. It's the stories behind the scars, the pain that went into them that has me so worried about him, so scared for what his past had to have been. But there's no way to explain that. "They wouldn't be if I didn't like you so much," I say. "What are the claw marks from?"

"Bear."

"What?" I say in disbelief.

"It was a trial, to test if I would be allowed to volunteer. Sword got knocked out of my hand, went for it, bear slapped me across the back. I killed it right after that, so." He says that flatly, like it's not even impressive or insane.

"And why didn't these get erased?"

"Not worth the effort. They only ever do the boys arms. It's quicker." There's a long pause where I just look at his back more and he doesn't move. "Why are you asking this? I mean, does it matter?"

"I guess not. But it matters to me." Slowly, I brush my fingers over the four parallel lines, from bottom to top, following the sweep of them. Goosebumps rise where I touch, but he doesn't move. "I don't like you being hurt."

"That's… nice. Of you," he says, unsure of how to handle this.

"Not as nice as you, taking the last twenty for Gale." I hesitate before saying this next thing. "I meant what I said then. I don't deserve you, doing that for me. I haven't done anything close to that for you."

"You saved my life."

"Why does everybody keep saying that? It wasn't just straight up like that. You saved mine too, you didn't kill me when you could've," I point out.

"Hell of a difference between not killing someone and saving them on purpose." He shakes his head.

"I was playing the game," I try to claim.

He isn't buying it. "You stopped playing the game when you asked about my family."

I forgot I did that. But now that I'm thinking about it, he's right, I did ask him that on top of the Cornucopia. "Yeah?" I say. "When did you stop playing the game?"

He turns to look at me, his face tight, and I almost think he isn't going to answer. "Probably when you jumped in front of the dog," he finally says. "But I didn't realize it then."

I hear Gale yell downstairs, and I jerk. Instinctively, Cato puts his arm in front of me, so I can't run out of the room. "We should go check on him," he says, businesslike, putting on his bloody shirt. "Just promise not to freak out."

"Okay," I nod. "But hold on."

He looks at me quizzically, doesn't move when I lean in and kiss him. After a second, he pulls me in, deepening the kiss and easily lifting me into his lap so he can get a better grip on me. He's hurt, smells like blood and sterile medical things, but I'm starting to think that doesn't matter, that maybe I just like kissing him. And that definitely scares me, because if I like kissing him for no apparent reason, then maybe it's time to reconsider how I think about him. I still have deniability now, I can still tell myself we're this thing slightly more than friends. But the way I like kissing him, that's more then that.

We break apart when Gale shouts again, somewhere beneath us and I flinch again, harder. "Let's go," he says, standing up and taking him with me. The two of us go down the stairs slowly, since he won't let me out of his arms. Then we're in the kitchen door and I can see Gale for the first time, _really_ see all the cuts on his back, what Cato has but doubled, tripled maybe, and I don't think there's any skin left.

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a strange sound, like crying almost. Blindly, I reach out for him, but Cato doesn't let me go. "I'm sorry," he says in my ear, but I'm not listening, because I've noticed Gale's not moving.

"Is he dead?" I choke out.

"Not by a long shot. Unconscious," my mother says grimly. She, Hazelle, and Prim all are working frantically over him with needles and thread, doing their best to put him back together, but I can still bone in places I shouldn't. "Go check on Edan," she tells Cato and me, and I can't tell who she's talking to. So we both go.

Edan's on the couch, lying on his stomach, looking bored. "Are you okay?" I ask him.

"Peachy," he says. "My back feels way less like a raw steak. Thanks for asking."

"Where's Ryan?" Cato speaks up.

"Mom dragged him home to help out. Don't envy him, that's for sure," Edan says. "So how's your friend?" His tone is reluctant, but I answer him anyways.

"I don't know."

Cato pulls me down into a chair, standing at my side stoically. I won't let him do that, though, because his back is hurt, so I insist that he sit. After some argument, he gets a wooden chair, spins it around, and leans on the back.

"Are you okay?" Edan asks him, having watched this whole thing.

"Yeah. I've had worse," Cato says. He's been saying that a lot, I've noticed, and it makes me wonder exactly how much worse that is.

"Well. You've got my vote," Edan says cheerfully.

"Vote for what?" I frown.

"Nothing," both boys say at once.

"How's the kid's back?" Edan asks. The question sounds forced; I am suspicious.

"Raw," I say. "No skin left on it."

"Damn."

"Yep."

Somehow, we're not really up to talking much more, so we keep mostly quiet after that. Cato draws me closer and I relax into him, interlacing my fingers with his to give me some reassurance that he's here, not broken beyond repair. Not another one.

And he's so warm and strong. I can't help but feel comforted by his presence, and now I'm starting to realize that's not something that I can just ignore. It's taken me a while, because I've been screwed up from Peeta's death and Gale's betrayal, but now I'm getting around to the facts of the matter. And those facts are frighteningly simple.

I like him more than I've liked anyone before. I like kissing him. I like being with him. And I've never liked anyone like this, not once in my life. Not even Peeta. I don't know how to categorize this, though. Or maybe I won't let myself know how. But I think I'm starting to.

This is maybe the worst possible time for a personal epiphany. I try to hold it in, shove it back into the recesses of my mind where it was before, where it belongs, but the realization seeps through, even still. He's not just a friend, even a best friend. He's more than that, better than that, and that's just how it is.

Prim walks in from the kitchen, her little face serious and pale. "Gale's awake. He wants to talk to you," she says. Cato gets up to come with me, but she stops him. "Just her."

"I'll be fine," I assure him. "I'll be fine." I squeeze his hand tight, then let go and follow Prim into the kitchen.

Gale's back is covered, bound tight in clean, white gauze, and his eyes are half open, but still, open. My mother's in a corner, not listening very intently. "Katniss," he says when he sees me. His voice is weak, his words slurred, and he's okay. Thank God, he's okay.

"Gale, I am so sorry." I sit down next to him, holding his hand tightly in both of mine. "We never should've let you go off on your own."

"I wouldn't have listened," he shakes his head.

Truthfully, I knew that, but it's so nice to hear it from his mouth. "Still, I should've tried. We're best… we're best friends," I finish, watching the hurt on his face and hating myself for it. Personal revolution aside, I still don't want to hurt him.

"Yeah," he says. "That's all we're ever gonna be, right?"

I don't know how to respond. "Gale, you're like the other half of me," I say desperately.

"Not the romantic half, though."

"No," I say after a second. "Does this mean… you'll be mad at me forever?"

He closes his eyes, and I panic, wondering if he's passed out. But then he opens them again. "Of course not. I just… I feel like I missed my chance. He stole you right out from under me."

We both cringe at the unintentional innuendo and refuse to acknowledge it. "No, he didn't," I say. "I wasn't yours to steal. You didn't… have a chance."

"Ouch," he sighs. "The whole anger thing was a lot easier when he didn't save my life."

"I've heard that's true across the board," I smile, completely relieved on the inside that we're at least able to joke again.

He smiles a little. "I've missed you," he says after a second. "Not in any weird way, just… _you_. I've missed you." I frown quizzically, open my mouth to argue. "See, like that, that thing you do when you think I'm being ridiculous. I thought I'd go crazy if I didn't see that again."

"I've missed you," I offer. "You know what I'm thinking before I'm thinking it. Nobody else will ever know me like you do, Gale."

He smiles crookedly, brings my forehead to his lips and kisses me. And I know him so well that I know he's not trying to win me back. "Damn it, Katniss," he sighs again.

"You want me to leave you alone until you figure this all out?" I suggest.

"Nah, I'll deal. It's figured out. You're still my best friend. Sorry I freaked out on you." He's ashamed, and when I see that in his eyes, I finally feel like I know the boy I'm looking at again, the one I grew up with. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I say. Even after all this, all he has to do is look at me and I'll forgive him.

"Not really." He's not going to push it, though, just relieved I'm going to leave this in the past. "Alright. Let me see him. I'll have to get this stupid gratitude out of the way," he says.

I'd be upset, but I know he's mostly joking. "Prim, can you -" I start to ask, looking around the room for her, but she's not there, because she's already coming back with Cato.

"What's up?" he says, doing his best not to be suspicious.

I look at Gale. He grits his teeth, and I know if he could move his arms, he'd be rubbing his eyes right now. "Thank you. For saving my life," he says stiffly. "I owe you one."

Cato almost smiles, tilts his head. "It's fine."

"What's so funny?" Gale sounds sullen.

"Nothing, it's just… you're just like her," Cato says, amused.

Gale and I glance at each other with what I realize is the exact same look. "Is that bad?" Gale asks curiously.

"Hey." I glare. "I'm not the one who randomly attacked someone I didn't know. I'm the one who should be asking if it's a bad thing. So is it?" I turn on Cato.

"I can't…" Suddenly, he looks very nervous. "I don't think I should answer that."

"You can sing," Gale points out. "We're different."

"Have you even tried?" I ask doubtfully.

"No birds quiet down to hear me sing, I'll tell you that," he snorts.

"That happens?" Cato asks me.

"He says so. I don't," I scoff.

"Try it. There's mockingjays outside. We'll hear if they stop singing."

I stare at Gale. "What? No. Why?"

He gives me puppy-dog eyes. "Because I'm hurt, Catnip."

Cato's face is impassive – when I look at him for input, he shrugs. So I narrow my eyes at Gale. "Damn you. Manipulative jerk."

"I'm waiting," he smirks.

So I sing. I choose the Hanging Tree, for its simplicity and slightly rebellious message. I start quietly, but the longer I sing, the more confident I feel. By the end of it, Cato and Gale are both staring at me, and Prim and my mother both have stopped their work to turn and look at me. The mockingjays outside are dead silent.

My mother has tears in her eyes; she turns back to what she's going in an attempt to hide it, but I see anyways. Gale's looking at me in this extremely sad way, almost angry. Cato's face is blank. And Prim just smiles. The mockingjays outside pick up the tune and begin to sing it, voices layering over each other in a hauntingly beautiful way.


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N: Hey guys! Alright, so we've gotten well over 500 with the reviews, and while that is AWESOME, it means I have less time to reply, with more than 50 reviews a chapter. I read each one, though, and I love hearing your thoughts, so keep 'em coming! **

**We've got quite a way to go before this is going to be an issue, but eventually this story is going to end and I'm going to start planning the sequel. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to continue it or start another story. If I do that, then I'll post an epilogue-y chapter on here with the title, so you guys know the deal or whatever. **

**Enjoy! (Especially Shauna)**

Mom doses Gale with morphling and he goes loopy, but she won't let me stay here with him to make sure he stays awake. "Haymitch wants to see you, go do that," she says.

Prim said something about that before, so I know she's not completely making up an excuse to get me away. I take Cato with me, since a drunk Haymitch is one I'm sometimes not strong enough to handle, and he's been drinking for the past month straight.

I knock on the door and don't wait for a response to walk in. "Haymitch?" I call.

He grunts loudly from another room, so we go to there and find him sprawled out in a chair, a large bottle sitting on his stomach. "Look who finally walked in," he slurs. "Don't mind me. I'm just drinking."

"Yeah, and you should stop." I take the bottles from him, put them out of his reach. "Why did you want me to come visit?"

He shakes his head and kind of shrugs. "Missed you."

"He's very drunk," Cato observes.

"Yep." I nod. "And very incoherent. Haymitch, do you need something, or should we leave you alone with your-"

"No," he says quickly. "No. Don't. Are you two okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine," I say suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Curious." He shrugs.

"Can you be curious with pants on?" I suggest.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can be." He doesn't move. "So how's the kid's family?" he asks, elaborately nonchalant.

"Peeta's?"

He kind of cringes at the name. "Yep."

"They're fine, I guess."

"No, no." Haymitch puts one heavy hand on mine. "No bullshit. How are they really?"

"The two brothers are angry. The dad's depressed. The mom is… I don't know. She doesn't seem to particularly care that much," I finally say.

"Angry?" he asks.

"Yeah. But not at me."

"So at me?"

"Of course not. It would actually probably mean a lot to them if you went and… I don't know, told them what a good fighter he was or something," I suggest.

Haymitch waves his hand dismissively. "Nah. Bad idea."

Cato speaks up. "You can't hide from them forever," he says, matter-of-fact.

"You shut the hell up." Haymitch points his finger a few feet away from Cato. "You don't know what you're talking about. I'm not hiding. I'm a victor." He punches himself in the eye as he tries to point at himself. "Damn it."

"Have you eaten food recently?" I ask, concerned.

"Nope. Food's… food's food." He shrugs.

"Don't be like this," I say.

"Like what?" he says, and he just sounds exhausted. "Come back to me when you've killed thirty kids, watched them die on national television. We'll talk then about eating. Talking to their families."

"And you've never spoken to any of their families?"

"Would you have?"

"I did. Ryan… you should talk to him, at least."

"Why?"

I don't have the answer for that right away. Seeing Haymitch consumed with guilt like this is hurting me in a way I didn't know existed, because I can see myself thinking like he does, after a few years of mentoring. Finally, I say, "Cuz I can't watch you go crazy like this. It wasn't your fault."

He raises his eyebrows, sucks in his cheeks. "Sweetheart, you can do anything," he tells me with a tone very close to pity.

"Look, I won't bother you anymore. I'll let you forget who you are. Just go talk to Ryan. At least try to get some kind of closure."

"Closure." He laughs darkly. "Of course. That's possible."

I wait.

"Damn you," he finally sighs. "You and your compassion thing." He sits up, head lolling, then finally wrenches around to look at me. "Give me ten minutes. I have to puke my guts up. And put on pants." He stumbles away, waving off our helping hands.

Cato looks at me intently. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I shrug, pretending that stupid tears haven't sprung up in my eyes. "I'll be fine. I don't know why this makes me so upset-"

"I do."

"What? Why's that?" I frown.

"He's you," he says flatly. "I mean, Gale's like you, but he _is_ you."

Above us, Haymitch falls into something. Loud cursing.

"I'm not sure if I want to be that," I try to joke.

But Cato just looks at me, deadpan, because he knows he's undeniably right.

We kind of just stand there awkwardly, not looking at each other after that, because something's hanging in the air between us now. Finally, Haymitch comes back down, with pants on as promised, and considerably less drunk. "Alright," he says. "Let's go."

We go. The streets are more empty than I've ever seen them, except maybe on reaping day, and it's eerie, but Cato and Haymitch are both here with me, one on either side of me. "This isn't going to fix anything," Haymitch informs me before opening the door. "I'm doing this as a favor, you understand?"

I nod, and don't let myself ask who it's a favor to; me or Peeta. And we go in, first me, then Cato, and finally Haymitch.

Mrs. Mellark is in the front of the shop, putting out new cheese rolls; she looks at me suspiciously when I walk in, and I remember I'm not exactly on her good side. Then she sees Cato, and her face changes, but I can't get a read on it before she sees Haymitch and changes again. Cato and I glance at each other and reach an unspoken understanding that we're not going to do the talking here, so Haymitch finally says, "I need to speak with your son." He's pale, but his voice is steady. I'm impressed.

"Which one?"

I think it's pretty obvious which one he's talking about. Haymitch maintains his cool. "Ryan."

"Gonna kill him, too?"

Wow. I look at Haymitch for his answer. He almost closes off, gets depressed, but then something clicks in his head, and he goes all flinty-eyed. "No, but much more of this and I'll seriously be considering you as a target." While she's trying to figure out how to respond, he continues, "Now please. Get your son out here."

Hard to deny him when he's like this. Mrs. Mellark certainly can't; she storms to the back with little grace. "How am I doing?" Haymitch asks us while he's out of earshot.

"Could be a little more nice," I suggest tactfully. "But overall, good."

"Yeah, because I have a habit of being nice to bitter harpies."

And then she comes back, with Ryan in front of her, looking royally furious. She all but pushes him towards us, angrily glaring at all four of us, and goes back to putting pastries in the front display case.

We're not really paying much attention to her, though, because Ryan's hurt. He's got a long welt across his face, over one cheek and to the corner of his mouth, and I'm pretty sure it's from one of the baking sheets. One of his arms has a similar mark on it, like he put his arm up to protect his face.

Haymitch is pissed off, now, all thoughts of closure clearly out the window. He peers closely at Ryan "Did she do this?" he asks, making no effort to be quiet. I'm pretty sure she hears him.

"Um…" Ryan doesn't seem to have an answer ready.

Haymitch waits for a second, then nods once and turns to Mrs. Mellark. "What gives you the right," he begins, "to do this, huh?" He's slightly drunk still, I can tell from the way he's talking, but he's also definitely sober enough to understand what he's doing.

"What I do with my family, in the privacy of my own home, is none of your business," she says, seething with anger.

"Lady, I'll say this once. Give me a straight answer or so help me, I'll draw my own conclusions," he says, sounding very bored.

"Are you threating me?" she narrows her eyes. "I don't think you should talk to my son. Ryan, come here," she orders.

Ryan has been looking very uncomfortable, watching this with an expression of obvious dread. When she says this, he starts to obey, taking a step towards her, but Haymitch sticks his arm out.

"No, no," he says. "Let's talk this out."

"It's really not that big of a deal," Ryan says nervously. "I'm fine."

"I know you are, kid," Haymitch says. "But if I'm the only one in this district who's drunk enough to tell it like it is, then fine. That's what I'll do."

"Get out of my store and leave my family alone," Mrs. Mellark orders shrilly.

"I don't think so," Haymitch shakes his head.

Cato puts his hand on my back, like he's ready to grab me and take us away if something happens. Ryan glances at both of us, and I can't tell if he wants us to leave or help him.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Haymitch says. "You're going to let him go with us. You won't stop us. And if you try, I will punch you in the face."

"Haymitch!" I say in shock.

"Stay out of this, sweetheart," he warns. "Not your battle. Take him and go."

"Why are you doing this?" Ryan asks.

Haymitch gives it a second of thought, no more. "I couldn't protect one of you brothers. I'm sure as hell not going to make that mistake again," he says simply. "Go."

He's using his serious voice, so immediately I go. Ryan's not about to move, though, so I take his hand and pull him after me, Cato bringing up the rear. We don't go too far from the door, though, and I drop Ryan's hand after I realize I'm holding it. "You're okay?" I say to Ryan, just to check.

"Yeah, yeah. Is Edan?"

"Yep. On our couch, happily miserable. I think he hates Gale a little less, though."

"Really? That's great."

"So I think you might be staying with us."

He sighs. "Yeah. Although I don't know how that's going to work out. Why'd he do this?"

"Hell if I know. He was just supposed to come talk with you guys," I shrug.

"And why's that?"

I hesitate, unsure how to explain the reasoning, and Cato steps in. "He needed to get his balls back. Wouldn't stop feeling guilty about your brother being dead. He was gonna drink himself to death if he didn't face you." He shrugs. "Closure."

"Guess that went out of the window," Ryan observes.

"Yeah." I tighten my lips. "Sorry."

Ryan's face twitches a couple times, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "It's fine. He's-" He stops talking when we hear a thump from inside, then Haymitch hurries out.

"Time to go, kids," he says, and herds the three of us towards home.

"What'd you do?" I ask.

"Punched her in the face," he says calmly. "I warned her."

"Are you serious?" Ryan stares in disbelief.

"Absolutely."

That begins this conversation between the two of them that's very personal and absolutely none of my business. Cato and I slowly realize this and hang back several feet, and after a few minutes of walking side by side, our hands find each other. I finally have a second to remember my epiphany from before, and I don't know if I want to walk closer to him or back off until I figure myself out.

"Well. I guess he's getting his closure," I say quietly.

"Is this how it usually happens?"

"I don't know. I'm not big on this type of thing. But I'm going to guess no, usually most people don't get closure by punching a woman in the face," I say with a bit of a smile.

"Oh."

"You don't… do you need closure?" I ask, looking up at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, I mean you were in the games, too. It doesn't seem to have affected you, and I'm just wondering if that's really what's true."

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says. "We're trained for it, though, so I guess it's different."

"Okay. As long as you're sure." I pause, figuring out my next words. "If something does go wrong, though, you'll tell me, right?"

"Sure," he agrees. "Don't worry about it."

"You can't stop me from worrying about you, y'know," I inform him.

"What?" He seems confused.

"You heard me."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I thought it."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"I'm not sure." He holds my hand tighter.

"Alright. Well, let me know when you figure that out. Until then, I'll worry."

"Deal." He almost says something a couple times. "You're awesome," he finally gets out.

"Where did that come from?" I tilt my head curiously.

"I don't know." He pulls me into his side, and we walk the rest of the way home like that.

Ryan ends up staying with Haymitch for the next week or so. The two of them have some kind of bonding experience or whatever, and when Edan's finally healthy enough to walk, he goes over there, too. They're good for Haymitch; he doesn't stop drinking altogether, but he does it considerably less. When they finally do go home, both Mellarks have more confidence than before. I'm pretty sure there's some agreement in place now, about not letting anything like that happen again, but I don't know the details. None of my business.

During that time, Cato stays with us. So does Gale, which leads for some uncomfortable moments, but they never try to kill each other again, so I guess progress is made. Since the woods are off-limits now, we finally have time to work on developing Cato's personality. Effie sends a package with a variety of things – painting supplies, flower-arranging stuff, journals and fancy pens, and books about all kinds of pursuits; bird-watching, history, fashion, and trivia. I need a talent to display on the tour, and hunting doesn't count.

We soon learn that I have a knack for none of that, though Prim gets reasonably good at most of those things. And Cato's not a painter or a fashion designer or a trivia person, not at all. He tries reading, but although he doesn't say a word, I can tell it's really hard for him. Not like, intellectually hard, but more like he never learned to read that well, so that's why it's hard. He knows his name, his district, and he can work out most of everything else, but it just takes some time.

And then, he writes. It starts off normal, just letters to his sister to make him more sympathetic to the Capitol citizens, but then I read them, and I realize; he's got a gift. The thing he said, about my eyes in that note before, that wasn't a one-time thing. I'm no gifted critic or anything, but even I can tell. Eventually, a few pages of his words make their way to Haymitch. He stops by to talk to us.

"Hey. Who wrote this? You wrote this?" he asks Cato. We're sitting at the kitchen table, which is finally without a boy on top of it for the first time in a week.

"Yeah," Cato says. "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, nothing's wrong with it," Haymitch says picking up some more pages from where they're scattered over the tabletop along with my crumpled attempts at painting. "You came up with this out of thin air, just by yourself?"

"Yeah."

Haymitch sits down at the table with us. "You've got a gift," he announces.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cato frowns.

"Writing. You've got a gift for it. If you were born before the games…" Haymitch shakes his head. "You're an artist."

"I don't get it. I'm not even good at it. What do you mean, I'm an artist?" Cato says.

"I mean you can make pictures with your words in a way I haven't heard of in anybody since the Dark Days. They did their best to beat it out of you, though, didn't they."

"Great. So I have a completely useless talent," Cato says flatly.

But Haymitch shakes his head. "Not useless. Not by a long shot." He stares off into space thoughtfully for a second, then nods once, like he's decided something. "We'll talk more later. Beautiful stuff," he tells Cato, getting up, and then he's gone again.

Privately, I'm not completely sure he's right about Cato. He doesn't write a lot, not unless he's got a reason to – more letters home, notes for me, and after Prim uses her puppy-dog eyes, he writes down things for her. Fairytales, descriptions, anything she wants. I know for a fact, though that he the stories he writes for her aren't any from his childhood. The endings are all too happy.

I don't tell him about my epiphany. It's not that I don't trust him enough to tell him, but more than I don't trust myself. The last person that I felt anything similar to this about died, because of me. I can't risk it again. He's the best thing to come out of the games with me. I'm not going to let him get away.

And on top of that, I don't know what I'd do without him, comforting me in the middle of the night because the nightmares just won't stop, holding my hand. And at the most random times, he'll reach out and touch me, my arm, my face, my shoulder, like he's reassuring himself I'm here.

The more this happens, the more I know he's not just my friend. I've never wanted anyone to touch me, or kiss me. Not like that. He's the only one. I can't lose him, can't do this without him. It might scare him away if I bare my soul to him. So I don't tell him.

He keeps making these random trips to the Capitol, though, every couple of days. He'll leave in the middle of the night or something, try to hide from me how long he's gone each time, but I catch on. The third time he goes, the day before he returns to his own district, he's gone for almost twelve hours.

I admit, I panic just a little bit. I mean, I pass the day fine enough, doing normal-type things, but when I see him walking in, I freak out. I don't run to him, though, because I can tell something is horribly wrong again, something big, like the last time he came back from there and needed me.

"You okay?" I ask cautiously, less than a foot from him.

"I'm…" he can't finish that sentence, so I look deep into his eyes to try to find the meaning there. They're completely blank, though, like the lake on a still summer day.

"What have you been doing there?"

He won't answer that.

"I want to help you," I say, taking his hands and holding them tight. He doesn't even twitch his fingers in response; they just sit there limply in my hands. "Why are you doing this?"

"For you," he says, his voice low. "I'm doing this for you. Please, believe that."

"Okay, but I don't know what that is."

He kind of shrugs, and that's it. He won't say another word. But he hangs onto me tightly for almost the next hour, and he looks at me differently after that. So when he tells me he has to go back to his district – something about training the next volunteers – I don't argue. Something's wrong with him. Maybe he needs some alone time to figure it out.

But then everything goes even more wrong. He leaves and he doesn't come back, doesn't call, won't take my calls. I don't know what to do, so I try to maintain some resemblance of normality.

I do my best to keep up a semi-normal routine; with Gale over his previous jealous rage, he and I go back to spending hours at a time together, working on a spot in the fence until it's weak enough to bend and slip through. We're more careful not to get caught, though, only trading game with people we know won't out us. In my absence, the Hob was burnt down, so we sneak it directly to people's back doors, avoiding Mrs. Mellark at all costs.

And then one day, when I get back home, something's different. The house is completely silent, empty, and smells strange. I don't register the specific scent until the door's shut, when it hits me in full force and I feel terror register in my gut. Blood and roses.

It's too late to run. "Hello, Miss Everdeen," Snow says calmly, sitting on my couch.

I immediately tense up, gripping my bow tightly and considering if I can risk a shot.

"I would put that bow down, if you know what's good for you," he says, unfazed. "And if your self-preservation has wavered since the last time we spoke, then do it for your fellow victor. That… animal you seem to be so fond of."

"He's a person," I narrow my eyes.

"He's a mockery. But if you value his life and sanity, then you'll drop the bow and have a civil conversation."

I don't have a choice; warily, I put down my bow, then cross my arms and ball up my fists. "What do you want from me?"

"So hostile," he chides. "Really, if you knew the efforts put into your safety, you wouldn't be so flippant. The sacrifices made for you."

"What are you talking about?" I say, keeping my voice controlled.

"He hasn't told you? Predictable. I'll leave that information to his discretion. I have my own agenda for today." He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "I'd like you to reconsider your arrangement for the Victory Tour."

"What?"

"Do you still intend to stay in the same train car with the other one?"

"Absolutely," I glare at him.

"Enough to not see him until then?"

There's some kind of a catch here, I just can't quite grasp it. "Maybe. Why?"

Snow sighs. "Here are your options. You can either spend the next few months together and build up that sickening romance of yours and separate during the tour, or you can give him some room to perform your respective duties as victors and reunite happily in due time." He pauses like he's done, and I start considering. Then he adds, "One more thing – if he comes back now, your little supposed romance will be finished the moment you first see him. That's a promise."

I feel something like a knife in my stomach – that's the real threat, that statement he tacked on as an afterthought. "What do you mean?"

"Was I unclear?" he frowns.

"No. But you can't control that. That's between the two of us," I say, well aware that I'm getting too defensive to be logical.

"Miss Everdeen, have I ever lied to you?" He answers his own question. "No, and I don't plan to. Believe me, I can control that. Stop stalling. Make your decision."

Half of me wants to choose staying together, just for the reason that it isn't what he expects me to do. But the rest of me knows I can't, just on the off-chance that he might be telling the truth. I don't want to know what he'd do to end our romance, and I can't afford to find out. So I say, "Doesn't he have a say in it?"

Snow laughs, genuinely amused. "He hasn't had a say in this from the moment you took him captive, my dear," he says.

"I'm not your anything," I say sharply. Snow just raises his eyebrows and doesn't argue, like a parent who's unwilling to waste any more time on an unruly child. "Fine," I finally spit out. "What's the catch? You're really only going to get involved if I choose the first option?"

"Of course," he says kindly. "Otherwise, I'll leave you two alone in your demented, blood-soaked paradise."

I want to puke, but my decision is made. "We'll wait until the tour."

He smiles, his eyes going squinty and snake-like. "Excellent. No contact, remember." He stands and leaves without another word.

My mother comes back later that day, after I've gotten myself somewhat together, after I've thought my way through this situation. This has happened. I have to deal with it. I made the best choice – the only choice – that I could. I can survive this time without him. I've made it sixteen years without him. I can make it a couple months.

And I do. It hurts, but I do. I send Cato a brief letter, telling him how Snow made me do this, that it wasn't my choice, but I don't know what he thinks about it or even if he gets it, because there's no response from him whatsoever.

After a few weeks, I give up on him ever replying and try to push all thoughts of him from my mind. It's a lot harder to do that when I'm aware of what I'm doing, but I pull it off. I spend time with Gale, Ryan, and Edan sometimes, with Prim and my mother, and occasionally even with Haymitch, as he dries out.

Now that I've been gone, I appreciate them so much more. They can all tell something's wrong with me, every single one of them, but not one asks me. They care for me, enough to give me room, and I love them all for it. Prim especially takes care of me. She comes to me in the night if she needs me, smooths down my hair and assures me that everything's okay, that she loves me. And although she doesn't have big, strong hands and strong arms, she does have her own kind of strength. She's a healer, like my mother, and she does her best to heal me.

They all do, in their own ways. Ryan somehow continuously looks past the fact that I killed his brother and becomes basically my brother. He continues to tell me the truth, even if it's not particularly complementary, and sometimes, late at night, we talk about the boy we both knew and loved.

Edan doesn't join us for that, not once. He's still bitter, which he totally has the right to be. In a crazy way, it almost feels good for someone to be close to as angry with me as I am, so I understand him. I like him even, in a crazy way, and he tolerates me, so we're okay.

Gale really steps up to the plate, even for him. He's everything I need and nothing more. I start to see what I've been missing all these years, how much he truly does love me, and not completely in a romantic sense. He apologizes so many times for what he said in the woods that day that I can't help but forgive him, and he curses the Capitol for me when I run out of anger.

My mother's reaction towards me is complex, like most things about the two of us. She cares for me and about me, I know that for sure, but sometimes she avoids me, especially when I'm feeling my most vulnerable. I think it's because I remind her too much of her own sorrow and separation. This time, I can almost forgive her for it.

And Haymitch is a completely different person when he's mostly sober. He's more reliable, more thoughtful, and even smarter than he's been before. I tell him about Snow's visit during a moment when we're alone. He looks very thoughtful, but the only advice he has for me is "Keep your wits about you. Be careful, sweetheart. And keep telling me these things. I might catch things you miss." I don't have any problems agreeing to that.

Since I haven't any knack for anything Effie sent, Cinna steps in. He arrives with my design team about a week before the tour, to prep me for the pre-tour interviews and such. As usual, Cinna has my back; he's developed my talent for me, complete with notebooks full of "my" designs and bags of fabrics and clothes to place conveniently about.

When I see all of that, I impulsively hug him. "You're the best," I tell him.

"It's the least I could do. Where's Cato?"

Of course he doesn't know. He's been in the Capitol this whole time. "He'll be here. First stop is here, so he'll come," I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

"Why did you stop visiting each other?" he asks.

I consider not telling him about Snow's visit, but he's trustworthy and smart. "Snow made me promise to. Or else he'd force us to break up. He wouldn't say how."

Cinna examines my face closely. "So have you had any contact with him since he left?"

"No. None. He didn't respond to the letter I sent him."

Saying this all out loud makes it frighteningly obvious how suspicious the whole thing sounds. I can see my worry reflected in Cinna's expression. "Does he have a talent?" is all he asks me.

"He's good at writing. But I don't know." I shrug helplessly.

"That's fine. We'll work something out," he says, very reassuring. "First things first, though."

First things apparently concern my personal appearance. I'm poked, prodded, shaved and tweezed into temporary perfection. Flavius exclaims over my hair, how much it's grown, how almost passable it is without any Capitol shampoos or products. Octavia is in a despondent state over the tan I've gotten – my makeup will all be the wrong shade – but Venia points out how dramatic the dresses will look on me.

Cato doesn't show up until the day of our pre-tour interview, an overcast day with a heavy ceiling of clouds. I wouldn't have any kind of warning except Haymitch drops by the house while I'm being styled. "Hey Everdeen," he calls, slamming the front door. "He's here."

"Cato?" I ask immediately, twisting to look at him and earning a scolding. "He's here?"

"Yeah. He's got a bunch of people working on him now. Are you done with her?" he asks my team and doesn't wait for the answer. "Great. Clear out, the cameras will be here soon." He picks me up out of the chair and takes me away into the hall. "Something's wrong," he says, matter-of-fact.

"What is it?" I can feel my heartbeat quickening with dread.

"He's not the same kid that left here. I only saw him for a few seconds, but I could tell," he says quietly. "Something's wrong. I'm willing to bet it's because of Snow."

"So what do I do?" I ask, not letting myself panic, because if I panic, then I'll cry and I've got makeup on that I can't have run.

"Be smart about it," he says. "Assume nothing. Feel him out before you do anything. I'll be right here, right off-camera, so you'll be safe, but…I have a bad feeling about this."

"I'll be careful," I promise, then can't stop myself from asking, "Is he okay?"

"I don't know."

At least he isn't trying to lie.

I nod. "Thanks for the heads up."

"Hey, darlin', that's what I'm here for." He stops talking as an interview team comes in with cameras and lights and begins to set up in our living room. "He'll be here soon. Be ready," he continues in a whisper.

"I will."

Gale comes dashing inside; he stops short when he sees us. "He's here," he says.

"I know. Thanks."

"Is it just me, or is he acting weird?" Gale asks, looking to Cato for validation.

"Not you," Haymitch shakes his head. "I saw it, too."

"It almost seemed like he was angry or something. He wouldn't talk to me. Well, I mean he didn't exactly like me when he left, but he'd at least pretend," Gale says.

"I don't like this. Not one bit," Haymitch says.

Then, I'm called into the living room for the interview. They seat me on the couch, very near to where Snow sat the day he came, and the interviewer lady has pulled one of the chairs over near it so the cameras can capture us in one frame.

We have to wait for Cato to get here. The whole time, my heart beats faster and faster, and a thin sheen of sweat covers my forehead. Behind the cameras, Gale and Haymitch look at me with concern. And then, finally, he walks in.


	22. Chapter 21: Cato BONUSISH

When I get home from 12, they tell me I'm not strong enough. They say I looked ridiculous on that stage next to her. She was the true victor. I looked like an imposter. I've been losing muscle since the Games, slimming back down to something closer to how normal people look. But they say I should never drop my guard. Constant vigilance is the only way to feel secure.

Something about that last thing sounds wrong, though I can't figure out what. I don't argue with the, though. The trainers are still stronger than me. I still have to listen to them. And although I didn't act like it, sometimes next to Katniss, I _felt_ like I didn't belong. So I go to my first training session without trying to fight it.

They take me to the basement of the training center, into a back room full of spare mats and punching bags. There's one chair in the center of the room, one flickering fluorescent light. I've got a bad feeling about this, but I sit in the chair when they tell me to. It's not like I'd be able to get out if I fought.

Then they tie me down, slipping on hard plastic ties before I have a chance to do anything, pulling them so tight they cut in to my wrists, ankles, waist. Before I can argue, they explain in very reasonable tones that this is necessary. I might try to fight against the training, they say, and that only would hurt everyone in the long run. Much better to get this done painlessly.

Except nothing here is ever done painlessly, so I know that's a lie. And if they think they're gonna need me tied down, then it's gonna hurt a lot. I ask what they're gonna do, but they don't answer. I ask again, then again, getting louder until they answer me. they say it's gonna be steroids, straight into my arm, and I shut up for a second.

We don't use steroids here. They're the easy way out, and nobody wants the reputation of someone who can't put in the effort to get strong naturally. I guess maybe they could really want me bulked up. That could be an explanation. But I think it's probably more likely that they're gonna inject me with something painful, or maybe a sedative. There's almost an endless amount of ways this could go horribly wrong, but no way for me t get out. So I just say to myself, "at least they're not doing this to Katniss." That thought can get me through almost anything. The Capitol. Definitely this.

The instant the needle touches my arm, I know what's in the syringe, what they're pumping into me. nothing else burns like tracker-jacker venom. Since it's directly in my bloodstream, the pain is more intense, sharp and white-hot. I want to rip off my skin, but I can't move.

Before the pain fades out, they start playing footage from the Games on the wall, all these shots of Katniss, who's dirty and exhausted, so it must be from near the end. I still think she's the prettiest girl I've ever seen, but I don't say anything. First, I can't; the venom practically sizzles in my veins. Second, this isn't a good thing, to see her face here. They're not the type for reminiscing.

And then they start talking, low voices narrating what's happening. The pain is still so intense that it takes me a while to figure out what's going on, what's wrong about Katniss, their tone changes. They try saying she didn't care about me, that I was an afterthought, that she wanted to kill me.

"No, that's not right," I say when I'm sure I can talk without embarrassing myself. "that's not what she's like. What are you doing?"

no answer. They just keep talking, telling me how much I don't matter to her. After they run out of shots of her from the Games, they move on to our interviews together, that first kiss in the elevator, and they keep telling me these lies about here, not giving me any time to talk anymore.

When they're done with me, I feel sore in my bones, a deep ache that I can tell won't go away for days. They let me go home, but only after showing me pictures of Silas, Sophia, and then Katniss, and Prim. If I don't cooperate, they say, accidents could happen.

So I don't fight them. I don't try to get out of going to that basement room, and I don't' tell Katniss. She'd want to do something, which is probably why they're trying to make me hate her in the first place. She's so good and perfect she makes everyone around her better, and I guess they can't risk having me get a conscience. It's better, then, that she not know, so she doesn't feel guilty about it. It's not like she has anything to worry about. They'll never make me hate her.

But then Snow shows up. I've been here for almost a month by now. Only a couple more weeks until the Victor's Tour. Whenever I try to get on a train to go see Katniss, one of the trainers is always there to stop me. a hundred times, I start a letter to her, but I never get past her name. They probably wouldn't let me send it, anyways. And the day I finally decide I'm going to send her one, Snow's waiting for me when I get home.

He's on my couch when I open the door, sore from another session with the trainers. "Cato, my boy," he says. "How are you?"

The last time I saw him here was when we made our deal and the trips to the Capitol started. This can't be good. "Get out of here," I say. "Leave us alone."

"Us?" He looks amused. "You mean Katniss?"

"Yeah. Stop doing bad things to me. And her."

"And her," he repeats. "So you care for her."

"Yeah. We're dating, aren't we?" I want to tell him he's wrong in about a hundred different ways, but only the most pathetic ones come out.

"I suppose that may be true," Snow nods thoughtfully. "Curious, then, how she told me she doesn't want to see you until the Victor's Tour, when she has no other choice. I barely got her to agree to stay in the same train as you."

He has to be lying. That's what he does. But for some reason, I almost believe him. I can't fight back, either. My tongue seems glued to the roof of my mouth.

Snow continues. "Seems like your… _thing_ will soon fall apart. I mean, she's upset, and you can barely stand the sound of her name-"

"That's not true."

"Then why do you cringe every time you hear it?" Almost like he knows I'll deny it, he whispers her name, hissing like a snake. "Katniss."

I shiver involuntarily, and my hands curl into fists on their own. "What did you do to me?" I demand, because this can't be me. I love her and she… doesn't she love me? I can't remember if she does for a second, and that scares me.

"Nothing," Snow says. "I'm not to blame for you realizing the truth."

It can't be true. "But you're why they pump me full of tracker-jacker poison every day, right?" I say, trying to stick to things I'll know if he lies about. "That's not a normal part of training anywhere."

"Have the hallucinations started?" he asks, ignoring my question.

"What hallucinations?" Dread is forming a knot in my stomach now.

"With a regular dose of venom for a long amount of time – a month, say – sometimes the hallucinations never really go away," he says, like that isn't a terrifying thing to tell me right now. If he's telling the truth, then I'll never know what's real or not. Maybe this isn't even him I'm talking to.

But I say, "Nope. No hallucinations." Yet.

"Then you must be stronger than you look," he says. Clearly, that's not what he means, but I can't figure it out, because the leftover pain from today's session still stings my veins.

"What do you want?" I say. "Because if it's nothing, then you should leave."

"I'm finished here. Just one more thing – Katniss has asked that you not visit her until the Victor's Tour. She'd prefer to spend time with her loved ones."

Meaning that I'm not one of them. But I don't have the time to get mad about that, because I'm trying to figure out what the rest of what he said means. Katniss would never say that. She wants me there with her. She said that. He has to be lying. He wants us apart.

But she might mean it. Maybe she changed her mind while I've been gone. Maybe she's dating that Gale guy. He's pretty convincing. And I'm almost positive he's never tried to kill her. It'd be easy for her to be with him.

While I think all of this and try to decide how to respond, Snow watches me closely. "Okay," I say mostly to make him stop. "You told me. so you can go now."

He gets up without another word and walks toward the door. This was too easy. But then he turns around. "It's not your fault," he says. "She's really quite convincing. Good at the game. No one can blame you for wanting to believe her."

"Believe her about what?" I'm going to be sorry I asked, I can tell right away.

"That she loved you," he says patiently. "Did you think that was real?"

More than anything else, I want to say I do believe her, because it IS real, damn it, but I can't. There's doubt in me. It didn't make sense to begin with. What possible reason could she have to even like me? I mean, I didn't kill her that one time, and when she cried, I tried to make her feel better.

But what if those tears weren't real? That new thought hits me out of nowhere, and it's devastating. I thought I was sure she was for real, but really, what evidence do I have? Her word, and her weird trust. And she could be lying, that trust could've been a carefully calculated risk. Everything could be a lie.

"I see I've left you with a lot of new information to think about," Snow interrupts my awful thoughts. "I'll see you later." When he's shoving me into some apartment in the Capitol and pretending that's not completely wrong. I don't answer and he goes.

I don't sleep that night.


	23. Chapter 22

Instantly, I know what they both were talking about. He's completely, radically different, even in small ways, like how he holds himself. He always walked like a Career, with his chest out and his chin up, but I know how he walked when he was here with me last, and it wasn't like this. He's more scared, looking around at everything with more paranoia then before, but he's also more angry, like the first time I saw him after the parade. And I don't know what to think.

"Are you okay?" I whisper to him as he sits down, before the cameras start rolling.

He won't even meet my eyes. Worse than that, though, is the fact that it seems to be out of some kind of contempt, not fear or shame.

"Cato," I say louder, trying for some kind of reaction.

I get one. His eyes flick up to mine for a fraction of a second, ice-cold with rage, and he says, "Save it for the interview."

Not a particularly cutting statement. Not one that should tear me apart the way it does. But his tone is what's absolutely chilling. If I didn't know him, I'd think he hated me.

The lights turn on, we're introduced, and it's time to be friendly. I've picked up enough from Cinna to convince them I know what I'm talking about when I discuss my newly-acquired passion for useless clothes designing.

Cato's another person when he's being interviewed – friendly, cool, together – and he takes my hand halfway through the interview. But that's different, too; his hand isn't comforting around mine. It's cold, impersonal, and very clearly just for show. And when asked about our relationship, he deflects the question and never answers it.

Something's seriously wrong, and it's infuriating that I have to act civil for the cameras before I know what's going on with him. Somehow, I make it through the whole thing, make my good impression, and hold myself together while the crew packs up again. Cato tries to leave with them, but Haymitch holds him back. I almost think they're going to fight, but Gale steps in, too, and reluctantly, Cato stays.

Haymitch speaks first when the media is gone. "What has gotten into you, boy?"

"You have no right to talk to me like this," Cato says, his lip twitching into a snarl.

"I have every right. Do you know how worried she was?" Haymitch motions at me.

Cato doesn't even look at me. "Worried about her reputation, maybe," he snorts. "But don't try to guilt me into joining your little group again."

"I wasn't aware you left," Haymitch says. The look he's giving Cato is downright scary.

"Yeah, well, wise up, old man. You done with the interrogation?"

I couldn't cut in to this conversation even if I wanted to, but I don't. I can barely piece together thoughts, let alone words. This seems to be real from him, all the anger and disgust, but for the life of me, I can't understand why.

Apparently Haymitch has a pretty good handle on things, though. He has no shortage of comebacks. "As a matter of fact, I'm not. So if you're gonna get rowdy, let me know and I'll go get those Mellark boys to hold you down. You remember them, don't you?"

That question is loaded – we can all sense it. "Yeah," Cato says, slightly less hostile.

"Then sit down." He sits, in a chair, far from me, and that hurts for some reason. "What happened to you?" Haymitch asks, his tone slightly more gentle.

"Nothing," Cato says.

"Yeah? What've you been doing for the past four months?"

His face twitches. "Training. Some favors for Snow."

"So now you're in close with that bastard?"

"No," Cato says instantly.

"And why'd you change your mind about everything here? Was it changed for you?"

"I didn't change my mind," Cato says. "I just saw the truth."

"Yeah? Look at her. You haven't once since the interview," Haymitch says, pointing to me. "Look at her."

Cato clenches his jaw, and then his eyes finally meet mine for real. I'm looking for some kind of reassurance, some reminder that he still trusts me, still likes me. But I find nothing. He's cold, unyielding, and angry. Now, I actually do think he hates me, and it's terrifying. Then he looks away, back to Haymitch. "I looked at her," he says.

Haymitch glances at me, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks genuinely scared. "That's not what I meant," he says. "Do you not remember what happened between the two of you?"

"No, I remember. I remember how I'm the next play to keep the Girl on Fire alive."

"What?" I say in disbelief. I swear I can feel my heart stop beating for a second.

"Innocent act still? It's convincing, I'll give you that," he says to me. "You had me fooled with the star-crossed lovers thing, too. Almost thought you cared."

He's not trying to hurt me – he's so offhand about it, I don't think he thinks it's a big deal to say it. And that's the most terrible part of it, because if he can just say something like that, he really has changed, completely. Something's changed him.

"What're you saying?" Haymitch says in a low voice. "Do you have any idea what you're saying right now?"

"The truth."

Everything he says is like another knife straight into my heart. "What did they do to you?" I say, swallowing hard. It's occurring to me that if he's so angry at me, then I'm really doing this Victor's Tour alone, without him. That was Snow's plan all along; I'm going to be alone either way.

"Nothing," Cato says, watching me coldly. "I've just been training."

"Oh Lord, kid." Haymitch sits down heavily on the couch next to me, and he puts his hand on my leg. "This isn't your fault," he says to me. "You made the best decision you could."

"What, the decision to ban me from coming here? Yeah, thanks for that," Cato says. "Really made the romance thing sell well. No big deal; my district just hates me. Save me then throw me under the bus. Good for you."

"I didn't…"

Haymitch stops me. "This isn't him," he says. "Don't believe this."

"No, it is me. Believe it," Cato says.

I find my voice, which is thankfully steady. "I didn't ban you. Snow made me promise not to talk to you, or else he'd…" The threat of us breaking up, which had really been the deciding factor in our deal, wasn't nearly as frightening as it had been before, and the threat to keep us apart on the train is laughable. "He made me," I repeat.

"Oh, yeah, I feel so bad for you. Do you've any idea what he's made _me_ do?" Cato says.

"Stop right there," Haymitch orders. "Not her fault. Katniss, go change, okay? Everything's going to be alright, sweetheart."

I want to believe him, I do, except nothing's alright. Nothing's ever going to be alright again, because he's not who he was. He doesn't like me. He can barely even look at me. I'm alone in this.

"Go," Haymitch repeats. "Your room. We'll take care of this."

So I get up and walk past Gale who's been standing and watching this whole time, up the stairs and into my room. I hate my room now; I realize it in this moment. Every part of it reminds me of him – the bed we sat and slept on, the clothes I wore when he was here, the blazer made of his jacket, the clothes he accidentally forgot here when he left. I hate it all, because I don't hate him.

I can't make myself touch any of my clothes. Only my father's jacket is still mine exclusively. I make myself take off the dress, put the jacket on, and then stand there, in my underwear and the jacket, looking at myself in the mirror. I don't know how to make myself move. It feels like so much work. Everything does now.

"Katniss." Gale's standing in the doorway. I see him look away when he realizes I'm not dressed. "Maybe you should get dressed."

"Maybe you should go away," I mumble sullenly.

"I'm here to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine. Go away."

He doesn't. Looking determinedly at the ceiling, he takes a blanket from my bed and wraps it around me, simultaneously hugging me. "It's gonna be okay," he says.

"Don't lie. You don't even believe that," I say.

"I might," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

But I am not in the mood to smile. "Don't try to make me feel better. Nothing's okay, nothing's going to be okay, and-"

"Everything's _going_ to be okay eventually."

"Maybe everything else, but not this. I can't make him like me. I'm surprised it happened once already."

He looks at me in the mirror, his face over my shoulder. "Katniss. If anyone can do it, you can," he says seriously.

"Why do you care? This is your chance, right?" I say unhappily. "He doesn't want me."

"But you want him."

It's true, I do still want him. I want him to like me again, so everything can be okay. Part of me won't let myself give up on that thought, on the possibility that he'll go back to being okay, but I don't even know why he isn't. I don't know what to do to fix everything. I'm pretty much paralyzed with all of the decisions, ones I need to make yet are out of my hands.

"Put on pants," Gale says. "And a shirt. And come downstairs so we can figure this out."

That, at least, is good advice. "Okay," I say. He lets go of me and leaves, shutting the door. I grit my teeth and make myself move, shrug off the blanket and pull on clothes that don't remind me too much of him. Then I force myself to go back downstairs to face the boy I once thought I knew.

Haymitch and him are sitting on the couch. Abruptly, they stop talking when I walk in, which only makes me more uncomfortable. I stick my hands deep in my pockets, balling them up into fists, but I stand straight. "What's going on?" I ask.

Cato glares at me. "None of your business." I don't react.

Haymitch takes over. "Something's wrong with his memories. Nothing huge seems to be missing, but they've been… twisted. I'm not sure-"

"Nothing's been twisted," Cato interrupts. "I remember everything. I know the truth."

Haymitch gets fed up. "Yeah? Do you?" he says, very patronizingly.

"Yeah. I do."

"So you know that she cried for you? You knew that? You know that she'd wake up from nightmares screaming because she thought you'd been killed? She's done nothing but defend you to everyone around here, but I don't have to tell you that, right? Because you know." Haymitch's tone is dripping with sarcasm.

For a second, Cato doesn't react. "I know she's weak," he finally says. "And unworthy. She shouldn't have won. That was mine. She didn't even want to win. Not like I did." He won't say my name, and the contempt in his tone is worse than being hit.

Still, though, I defend myself. "Yes, I did. I had to win to get back to Prim." There was never any other option; not in my mind, at least.

Cato clenches his jaw and looks steadily at the ground. "Whatever."

Haymitch peers closely at him, looking at his face suspiciously. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The look on your face. What were you thinking? Was it Prim?" Evidently, that's it. "There it is again. It's Prim, what do you think about Prim?"

"She's… I don't know. She's just a kid."

Haymitch nods thoughtfully. "Where's your sister?" he asks me.

"At the bakery."

"Gale, stay with them. Do not leave, do you understand me?" Gale nods seriously, and Haymitch turns to Cato. "Don't try to leave. We're doing this together, like it or not, so we're going to have to figure out some way to work with each other. Does that make sense in that psychotic brain of yours?"

"I'm not working with any of you," Cato says, narrowing his eyes.

"You're gonna have to, unless you want Snow to have a chance to quietly dispose of your sorry ass. You've been nothing but problems to him, anyways, he'll jump at the chance."

That seems to shut him up; Cato stops arguing and goes back to glaring at the ground.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Play nice," Haymitch orders, and leaves.

Gale watches the both of us with eagle eyes, like he expects us to jump at each other. "Katniss," he says softly.

"Don't." I shake my head. "Nothing's okay, nothing's gonna be okay."

"Why, because you have to deal with me again?" Cato speaks up. "Tough luck."

I can't work up the proper indignant response to him; all I can do is look at him and hope the depth my grief doesn't show on my face. "If I did anything to you, then I'm sorry," I say. "But all I ever did was what I thought was best for both of us. I tried to keep you safe."

"Great job of that," he says sarcastically.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't defy the president of our country enough for you. But I don't understand why that changes everything so much. You were… we knew each other." I started out strong, but end pathetic.

"You never knew me."

"I tried. I did my best. And if that's not enough… I guess that's fair. But I don't know why you've suddenly decided I didn't care about you."

"I didn't decide anything. That's been the truth all along."

The conversation, which has been speeding up, abruptly stops. I can't talk to him; he's not listening. He won't even look at me. Gale's maintained a tactful silence this whole time. Now he says, "So you remember everything perfectly, except you're convinced now that Katniss doesn't like you and has been using you. Is that right?"

Cato doesn't want to answer. "Something like that."

"That doesn't just happen."

"We've got a genius on our hands," Cato says.

Gale doesn't say anything after that. Haymitch is back in a couple minutes, and Prim's following him. Evidently, he hasn't told her Cato changed, because when she sees him, her face lights up and she runs straight to him. I take a step forward to stop her, but Haymitch waves me away. So I watch her hug him. "It's so good to see you again," she says.

Cato stiffens, and I prepare myself to kill him if he hurts her. All he does, though, is put his arms around her, patting her back a little. "Yeah," he says.

Prim's not stupid. She notices the difference in his response to her, how he's tense, and she pulls back to squint at his face. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

She's not buying it, but Haymitch stops her next question. "Gale, kitchen," he orders. "Just stay there for now." He drags a chair to the side of the room opposite the couch. "Sit here," he directs me, and I do. He seats himself in a chair between me and the other two, and then he stays there, slouching and looking thoughtful.

"How was your district?" Prim asks Cato, searching his face.

"It was… pretty normal."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs and doesn't answer.

"Don't feel bad. He won't tell any of us," I say.

Cato flinches at the sound of my voice, glares at me, and Prim watches all of this in confusion. "Are you two fighting?" she asks.

I don't say anything – he created this problem, he can explain it to my sister. Finally, he says, "I guess that's one word for it."

"What happened?" she says.

I'm interested in his answer, but I can't tell if Haymitch is; he continues to stare at them in the same way. "When I went home," Cato says slowly, "I realized some things. Things I should've known all along."

"Like what?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do," Prim insists. For just a second, I can see myself in her stubborn face.

Cato can't refuse her, even as angry and scared and different as he is now. "I should've won the Hunger Games. Or I should've died. Living in the eternal debt of a… slum girl from District 12 is insulting. And I was naïve to think I was anything but another way to stay alive for her," he says with complete contempt. "Like the other kid she supposedly loved."

Bless Prim. She cries at that, tears filling her big eyes and dipping down her face. "Why would you say that?" she says, all of the hurt I feel displayed plainly in her voice. "We love you. All of us do."

"You don't know that."

"I do! I know we do. What happened, why are you like this?" she says desperately, and he has nothing he can say to that.

Haymitch speaks up after a moment. "So you like Prim," he says. "You still have that big brother vibe going on with her. Right?"

Cato's glare returns. "Why do you care?"

"Oh, I don't. I could give a rat's ass about your personal views right now. I only care because she does." He points at me over his shoulder. "This is tearing her apart." I shift uncomfortably in my chair, because Prim's looking at me with tears in her eyes.

"You keep saying that, but I know, okay? I know it's all part of your image campaign. I know how that works," Cato says disdainfully.

"See, though, you don't. She's the Girl on Fire. Her image is set, pretty much for life. I don't need you to help with that."

"No, but you need me to keep Snow from thinking she's leading some kind of rebellion."

"Nope. That crisis is pretty much averted. Idiots in the Capitol have already moved on." Haymitch waves his hand dismissively. "So let's get this straight. You're important to us because _she_ says you are. Not because we need you."

"Why would she want that?" Cato asks.

Haymitch shrugs. "Hell if I know. Ask her yourself."

Cato's face twitches into disgust for just a second.

Triumphantly, Haymitch points at him. "There. Right there. Whenever you think about talking to her, or have to talk to her, you look like something offended you. Why's that? Why just her?" he asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cato says.

Haymitch shakes his head. "You do. Don't lie to me. I'll destroy you. Tell me why you look at her like that."

"I don't… I already told you. I realized the truth."

"Sure. Sure you did. You realized that the girl who was willing to give up everything to spend time with you secretly despised you all along. Somebody should give you a prize."

"What did she give up?" Cato snorts.

"She gave up her victory, for one. Willing to risk her life. And her story of being a grieving lover – would've kept her safe forever and then some, but she ditched it to hold _your_ hand. She almost lost her best friend because he insulted _you_. And now you dare to say she hasn't given anything up for you?" Haymitch is getting legitimately angry now. It's kind of terrifying, but also really sweet.

"Alright. So she's given up stuff," Cato says after a second. "That doesn't mean-"

"Just because you've been brainwashed to ignore anything said by someone who isn't from your district doesn't mean you're right," Haymitch says.

Wait a second. "Maybe that's it," I say, then clear my throat, because my voice is rusty. "He was worried before about being programmed some way. About them using it against him. Maybe they did that," I say, looking down at my lap, scared what I'll see in Cato's eyes.

Haymitch looks at me for a second, then nods once. "You're alright, sweetheart," he says. "You're completely right, too." He turns back to Cato. "Anything like that? Triggering stuff they taught you as kids?"

Cato looks very suspicious. "Like what?" he says, but he's holding something back.

"You'd know better than I would. Throw something out there." Haymitch shrugs.

I watch Cato give me another hard look, soften when he realizes Prim's still sitting next to him, and decide how much to tell us. "What about if they had me move back in with my parents? And put me back into training twenty hours a day."

"That's a start," Haymitch says after a moment. "That's definitely a start. What else?"

"Wait, you actually think I used to… like you all or something, and I was… reprogrammed or something?" Cato says, frowning.

"Along those lines." Haymitch nods. "What else?"

"But you might be lying, and I'd have no way of knowing. Like, for sure knowing."

Prim fixes him with her most stern look. "We're not lying," she says firmly. "We wouldn't do that. Don't you remember that about us?"

Cato frowns a bit. "I don't know," he says reluctantly. "You said you wouldn't. Can't remember if you meant it."

That's the most honest and helpful thing he's said so far, a good step in the right direction I think. "We meant it," Haymitch says. "Now come on. More district 2 secrets. That was a joke," he adds.

Cato doesn't smile. "I met with Enobaria and Brutus," he says. "For victor's training."

"What was that like?"

"I don't know. Tiring. And they gave me advice."

"Advice. Advice like what?"

"How to survive as a victor. Who to trust." He hesitates. "Holy shit."

Prim looks shocked. Haymitch is peering at Cato's face closely. "Holy shit what? Do you believe us?"

"No. But it almost made sense," Cato says "So what if you're telling the truth?"

"We are," Prim says tearfully.

Cato won't argue with her outright. "Okay. So what if. What would you do?"

"Well, we are," Haymitch says. "And we're going to work on snapping you out of this."

Cato looks at the three of us in turn suspiciously, especially at me, but at least he looks at me at all. "This is crazy," he says. "Like, legitimately crazy. Nobody's programmed me any way. You just want to keep me around as your pet or something."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Sure. You really believe that. Think about how stupid we're being for you and then say it like you mean it, kiddo."

"I do mean it."

'Mmhmm. Sure. Alright. Let's take a trip, shall we? Memory lane. That first night after the games together, you remember that?"

Cato nods. "The window. I know, yeah."

"Do you really, though? Because if you did, you'd never accuse her of not caring."

That catches him off-guard. Haymitch does have a talent for casually dropping bombs on people. "Why's that?" Cato asks.

"You say you remember. You tell me."

"She was crying. And you let me in to talk to her."

"Remember why you came up there?" Haymitch asks.

"I thought… I wanted to see if she was okay. I was weak," he adds quickly, but I've already felt a sharp pang of heartbreak.

"Good. Good start," Haymitch nods. "Okay, what else?"

"We talked. She cried. Then we fell asleep."

"Remember how you felt?"

Cato scowls. "Why the hell would I tell you?"

"C'mon, kid, we were on a role. Don't make me re-explain why this makes sense," Haymitch says with annoyance. "What'd you feel?"

"Scared. Alone. Not as alone when I was with her. Stupid." Cato shrugs. "Went against everything they told us. I never should've let it happen."

"But it did." Haymitch is silent for a while. "So you remember it well. What changed? Something had to change. What did you think about Katniss?"

The longest silence yet. Cato looks down at his hands and the floor and basically anything but the people in the room with him. Prim, who's been very good at remaining silent this far, says softly, "Cato. What did you think?"

"I thought she was different. From everyone I know. But I should've known better."

Several tears accidentally escape from my eyes and drip down my face when he says that. That was the best night, the first time I thought I might not be completely alone without Peeta, and to hear him doubt every moment of it hurts worse than I can imagine.

I don't let myself make any noise, but Cato looks up like I called his name. He almost flinches, uncomfortable, and moves away from Prim guiltily. "I should go," he says. "I shouldn't be here. We're not on the same team."

"Yes, we _are_," Prim insists. "Where are you going to stay, anyways?"

"In one of the empty victor's houses. Since nobody around here can win." That taunt somehow lacks some necessary bite, but it still stings. He gets up, slipping out of Prim's grip and walking past me out the door.

Haymitch frowns at the wall, evidently thinking very hard. Prim comes and runs straight to me, jumping into my lap and holding onto me tightly. "He didn't mean that, any of that," she assures me, but it doesn't mean very much.

"He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it. He's not like that," I shake my head. And even Prim can't work up something cheerful to say to that.

We sit there together until Haymitch finally decides to talk. "Prim, go back to the bakery for now. We've gotta figure a few things out." Prim nods solemnly and goes; she's good to have around in a crisis. "He's trying," he finally says after she's gone. "God help him, he's trying, but he's had a hard time of it."

"What are you talking about?" I frown at him.

"Alright, so I haven't been completely honest," Haymitch says, turning to face me.

"What a surprise."

He frowns at me, but he's got a smile in his eyes. "Just listen," he says gently. "This isn't the first time I've seen something like this. Snow's got a habit of playing with the victor's minds. He's got a couple different ways that I've seen, but lucky for you, this seems to be the most… non-invasive, you might say."

"Great. He only made Cato think I hate him."

"Believe me, he could do much worse." I do believe him, so I sigh, nod, and let him continue. "Far as I can tell, they left him his memories but changed the color, so to speak. The feel of everything. I'm thinking just a touch of tracker jacker venom, maybe."

"But why would they just do that?" I ask. "Why just a little if they could do a lot?"

He shrugs. "If I'm going to guess, I'd say they didn't expect us to be rational. Snow was probably hoping your emotion would get the best of you and you'd flip shit on him, not give him a chance and not see what really happened. And if that fails, he's probably hoping we won't stick with it long enough to get anything done."

"Why, how long will it take?"

He answers very reluctantly. "Well, I'm not sure. I've never actually seen anything like this work before."

"What?" I stare at him.

"You've got a knack for gathering firsts," he shrugs. "Yeah, he reprograms victors if they cause him problems. But there's usually nobody left to care. Not enough to try and switch it all back."

"So you have no idea what you're doing," I say. Any hope I had is pretty much gone now.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, I just don't know if it'll work," he says. "I'm playing on his thing for you that he obviously still has. I don't know how strong that is, though."

I consider what he's said, try to think through the possibilities. "I think it's time you tell me exactly what your plan is," I say. "I know you're the mentor and all, but I need to know."

"Of course, sweetheart," he says, nodding. "I'll tell you everything."

And he does. He sits me down and gives me the whole scoop. He thinks it's only the memories of me that have been changed; that's supported by how Cato still liked Prim, let her touch him and talk to him. And he's pretty sure that only a little tracker jacker venom was used. Most of it was probably the programming bred into him, beliefs that everybody hates him, nobody trusts anyone, and kindness is weakness. "The only way you got through to him in the first place is because he was weak and feverish, and he didn't have those bastards telling him constantly that he was wrong and you're playing him," he says. "And he already could barely believe you liked him to begin with. They played into his subconscious with all that distrustful shit."

"So he just has to remember that we do like him? And then he'll be back?" It can't be that easy. I don't let myself hope it'll happen just like that.

"No." Haymitch shakes his head. "What they told him, it's a part of him now. They didn't shove new memories in him. They changed the old ones. You've gotta build new ones, fast, but for that to happen, he has to trust you."

"So I'm trapped? It's never going to work? Is that what you're saying?"

"Calm down, sweetheart. No, that's not what I'm saying. It'll be hard, but if anyone can do it, it's you. And him realizing the memories are fake, that should help," he says thoughtfully.

"Okay. But how am I s'posed to build memories with him when he won't even talk to me?"

Haymitch has already thought of that. "You've got the same train car. Do what feels right."

"So I have to make him fall in love with me," I say dubiously.

"Pretty much." He smiles, overly cheerful. "Good luck. I'll be nearby if you need me. Now, we're going to district eleven tomorrow. You'll have a couple hours on the train there, and you're gonna stay there between appearances, so work on him then. I'll be one car over, there'll be Avox and Peacekeepers all over the thing, so he won't hurt you."

I hadn't even considered that he might hurt me. "That's good," I say, swallowing hard.

"It is. Sweetheart, listen." He looks at me very seriously. "He fell in love with you once. You can make it happen again."

While his faith in me is comforting, I can't say I think I deserve it, really. Haymitch does seem pretty damn sure of my charm or whatever, and that Cato was, at one point, truly in love with me, but I'm not so sure. I don't even know if I can make him talk to me, let alone love me. I don't know if I can stay calm enough.

But I nod and smile, play my part. Haymitch is convinced, I guess, because he leaves soon after that. When Prim comes back with my mother and they ask me how things went, I pretend there's some hope. Gale, who snuck out after Haymitch sent him to the kitchen, comes back around dinner time and offers me a thousand things to make him feel better, but I make him leave. His family needs him; I don't. Nothing he says will help me.

I don't even try to sleep tonight. As soon as I'm positive everyone else is asleep, I put on my father's leather jacket, heavy boots, stuff a knife in one boot, and go straight into the woods, deep, as far from everything as I can get.

I don't have my bow, no weapons except for the knife, and I don't particularly care. If some wild gets me at this point, I can't say that I'd consider it a terrible loss. I dare somebody to make an attempt on my life right now, actually. I'd love to rip someone apart and then cry hysterically for about a week.

It only makes sense to get somewhere a little safer than the rest of the open woods; the house it is. I go straight there, slam the door, and sit down against one of the walls, curling up. And then I do cry, hysterically, because I'm angry and scared, I don't know what I'm feeling or what to do about it. I just know nothing's okay.

The weather outside finally explodes into a thunderstorm, lightning and rain falling like a response to my tears. The house is sturdy enough, just a few leaky spots, so I stay where I am and keep crying. It's nice to be alone here, alone and heartbroken.

And of course, since I _want_ to be alone, I'm not. And it's not Gale who followed me here and now bursts in, soaking wet, which would make more sense. It's Cato, blonde hair plastered to his head, looking at me like I'm personally responsible for all his problems – which I guess I kind of am.

"What are you doing here?" I say over the sound of rain hitting the roof and windows. I don't even bother wiping off my face.

"Trying to remember if you're nice or not."

Apparently, even when he hates me, he's still brutally honest. I don't say anything back; I'm too busy crying. Harder than before, actually, because seeing him look at me with such suspicion and hatred is heartbreaking.

"Why are you crying?" he asks, standing at the door uncomfortably.

I figure I might as well tell him the truth. "Because this whole situation completely sucks and I don't want anybody to know how much this freaks me out."

"Did you know I'd follow you here?"

I'm kind of fed up with his paranoid suspicion, so it's very possible that I snap at him. "No, okay? I didn't know you _followed_ me here, are you kidding me? I generally don't keep close tabs on people who hate me. Stop worrying that my entire life is a highly orchestrated effort to screw with you, okay? I was just trying to cry alone somewhere."

That stops him for a while. After a minute, he sits down on the opposite side of the room as me against the other wall. Whatever. I don't care where he sits; I'll still be sobbing here. The only possible place he could sit that would make me feel better is right next to me, and that's impossible.

I keep sneaking looks at him, though. I can't help myself. Soaked through, he looks just like he did after we escaped being drowned. I almost wish we were back there. Even though we thought we had to kill each other, at least he'd just saved my life. Things were going up instead of down. The situation could only get better; now it's spiraling down.

"Do you expect me to do something?" he asks loudly after a very long time. The storm is only getting worse, more lightening, more thunder that shakes the walls, but I'm not moving.

"Not anymore."

The next lighting strike, though, is close and terrifying; I flinch at the sound then keep crying because now, I'll probably never have a chance to tell him about my revelation. Good chance that he won't care – maybe not for a while, maybe never.

"Will the house come down?"

I really don't want to talk to him until he's back to how he was, but this question is purely business, at least, so I answer. "It's survived worse storms. It should be fine," I say shortly, wiping my cheek on my sleeve.

Neither of us says anything for several minutes. "So why are you crying so much?" he finally says. He has to be so loud, it takes me a moment for me to realize he's trying to sound less hostile than before.

"Don't pretend to like me," I say. "It'll just make me more upset. If you have any doubts about maybe ever liking me, do at least this for me."

"I can't hear you," he says loudly, and then slowly, he gets up and walks over here. He sits several feet away from me against the wall and says, "What?"

"I said don't pretend to like me. If you've ever doubted the whole hating me story, do at least this much for me," I say, turning towards him but not letting myself look at his face.

"I'm not asking because of that. I'm trying to understand," he says.

"Well, sorry. I'm a little busy – my world kind of fell apart today."

"Oh."

A drip from the roof turns into a gentle stream, and he scoots closer to me to avoid it. I'm hyperaware of him, of the exact distance between us, how easily he could reach out for me and how sure I am that he won't.

"Do you think he's right? About the reprogramming?" he asks after several more minutes have passed.

"I hope he is." I swallow hard and make an effort to sound more coherent. "But I have no way of knowing. All I know is that you left here my boyfriend and came back my enemy. And you don't even remember that."

"Your fake boyfriend."

"No, Cato, my real boyfriend. We were a real couple and you asked for it. We were one on stage, but we… we wanted to kiss each other," is the only way I can think to say it.

He's quiet for the longest amount of time so far, and I keep crying, thankful the storm is doing such a good job of hiding what I'm sure is gross sobbing. What Haymitch said, about building new memories, pops back into my head, and I can't help but be darkly amused, because our first relationship started with me crying, and now, if there's a second one, it'll start the same way.

"I guess if you have questions, I'll answer them or whatever," I say when I've run out of tears. I take several deep breaths to calm myself down, but I'm shaking, like you normally do after a long cry.

"What?" He doesn't seem to understand.

"Questions. About me or… I don't know. Your memories."

"Right now?"

"Yeah, we're gonna be here for a while. Might as well."

"What if you're lying?"

I keep forgetting he doesn't trust me at all. I guess I can play to his logical side, though. "Even if I am, there's nothing you can do about it. And we're stuck here. Isn't more information better than no information?"

He can't deny that. "Okay." We sit there in silence while the storm rages on the other side of the wall. "So you want me to believe that you didn't mean to shoot me in the hand," he finally says.

I cover my face in embarrassment and groan. "Yes, that was completely an accident. I'm so sorry. I was still in the arena, I guess. Part of me was."

"You didn't do it because you were trying to kill me. Or because you… like me being hurt," he says doubtfully.

If I had any tears left, they'd be gone, because he's been so ruined by them that he has to wonder if this is true. "No," I say. "I don't like you being hurt. And I don't want you dead. Why would I even want that? You were the only thing holding me together then. Don't you remember that?"

"I remember that's how you acted."

"Well, that's how it _was_," I insist. "It was. And if I liked you getting hurt, then would've let you die in the arena. I didn't have to save your life."

He has no comeback to that. "I guess that's true," he says.

"It is."

There's another long silence. "You were crying about me?" he asks.

"Just now?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you're like this," I point at him without looking. "And you don't even know why that's a problem." I know that's not a good enough explanation, so I do my best to think of another way to say it. "It's like the real you is on the other side of a piece of glass, and I just can't get to you."

"No. I'm right there," he says, and I don't know if he's trying to be obtuse or not, but I don't think he is, and I hate it. He's the writer. He should understand what I mean.

So I say, "Yeah. That's the problem."

There's not really an answer to that, and he doesn't attempt one. After a few more minutes, he just asks another question. "You wanted to kiss me?"

"Yep. And you did too," I say shortly, because I'm not going to think about exactly how much we both wanted that, and how much I miss that. "Why, what do you remember?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Yes it does, it definitely does. I'm being completely honest with you. The least you can do is answer this one question," I say, because if we're going to be doing this, then he's going to give me just as many answers as I give him.

He's quiet for a long time. Just as I'm getting frustrated with him and his double standards, he talks. "The way I remember it, you were trying to convince me you wanted to. So I'd be more convincing to the cameras."

"No," I shake my head. "No, that's not what it was at all."

"So you expect me to believe you're not actually disgusted by me," he says. "Okay. Sure."

"I'm not." That catches me off-guard. I don't understand how he'd think that. So I sit there, dumbstruck for a second, before I can get any more words out. "Why would you-" But I stop myself, because I know exactly why he would think that. Brutus and Enobaria, everyone in his district. That's exactly what they'd tell him. "I don't think you're disgusting," I say very seriously.

He doesn't answer.

"No, no really," I say, turning to look at him for just a second. "I don't care if you don't believe anything else I say. You can even keep hating me, I guess, if you're determined to, but I do not think you're disgusting. Do you understand me?"

"Why do you care?" he says, avoiding my eyes.

"Because I'm not going to be responsible for your self-esteem issues. That's where I draw the line." I care for him too much to know I'm causing him this kind of pain, and I know him believing I think he's disgusting will hurt him, even if he won't admit it. "You're not gross," I repeat one last time.

His eyes finally flicker up to mine, just for a second. "You're good at this," he says.

"At what?"

"Convincing people. You can tell anyone anything and they'll believe you. Makes it hard to think logically," he says, sounding some mix of bitter and cold but definitely hostile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't know a lot. Doesn't mean it's not true."

"The same can be said about you," I say, irritated, and I cross my arms tighter to keep myself from being destroyed by the fact that we can't even have a civil conversation anymore, after what they've done to him.

We don't talk for several more minutes. Lighting strikes so close I can feel a buzz of electricity in the air for a second afterward. Something occurs to me. "So you're back to not sleeping," I say.

"Yeah," he says. "And you're not sleeping either."

"Nightmares," I say. "Don't try to tell me I'm faking those. And now there's this. I'm pretty sure I'll never sleep again." I glance over at him. "What, don't believe that, too?"

"I don't know what to believe," he says in a moment of weakness.

"Believe _us_. We've done everything to help you. They've only hurt you. I know you won't admit it the way you are, but everyone you've known before the games has only ever hurt you. Your parents, your mentors, they raised you to die. Those aren't people who love you." I don't know where I'm getting this passionate speech from, but it sounds good.

He doesn't reply for a very long time. I don't think he will. But then, he says, "You love me?"

Damn. "I don't know," I say.

"You just know they don't." He sounds dubious.

"Anyone with a brain knows that."

"Are you saying I don't have a brain?"

"No," I say, frustrated. "But being with you… sometimes, I thought… it made me start to think maybe I knew what Peeta was talking about, alright? I cried for you. I guarantee none of them ever have." I thought I'd run out of tears, but a few manage to slip out, because this isn't how I wanted to tell him about my revelation.

"And you're crying again now. For me?" he says. I can barely hear him over the rain.

"Yeah." It's makes me feel weak and exceedingly stupid, but I am. I guess we all have our problems, and mine is that I'm doomed to love him from now until I die.

I have to keep trying. I have to get through with him, or at least never stop trying, because if I give up on him then I won't know what to do next. So I talk again. "I don't expect you to believe me right now. Or even ever, I guess. I hope not. But you're believing people who say you should've died, or won more money for them or something."

"So? You hate me."

I can't speak right away, because that's straight from the old him. "No. I don't hate you."

"Okay," he says after a second.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

I sigh wearily. "Okay."

We sit there together, not speaking, until the storm lets up, which is a really long time, but it doesn't feel like it. It's not nearly enough time to tell myself I don't want him to hold me, not while he hates me like this. It's actually light when the rain finally stops, and for the first time, I remember that we're leaving today for district eleven. Haymitch is going to be pissed. I can't bring myself to care.

"You should get back. Your mentors will be pissed." I don't look at him or let myself sound too invested. Though just by telling him this, I guess that's kind of giving myself away.

"They're not here."

"They didn't come?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a disgrace." His tone is completely emotionless.

"I don't think you are," I say, even though I know it's hopeless and I'll never convince him. This whole thing is so uncomfortable, though, so I stand up and walk out of the cabin. I can't take any more of this from him, and I actually don't want to disappoint Haymitch.

Cato follows me out silently, and I'm determined to ignore him. He doesn't care about me anymore. No reason for me to worry about him. "How late are we?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say shortly, walking faster. I'm so busy being annoyed with him that I don't see the giant patch of mud in front of me, and I fall flat on my back, the wind completely knocked out of me.

I blink rapidly and gasp, then finally get a deep breath in. Immediately, I start to laugh. It's definitely not a healthy laugh – really, it's more born out of desperation, at everything going so magnificently wrong at once, but it still feels good, in a crazy kind of way. I don't know when the last time I laughed was.

Cato's face moves into my frame of vision, looking reluctantly worried. "Are you okay?"

"No," I say, grinning.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because everything sucks." I throw my arms out to encompass everything. "Everything."

"You're weird," he observes.

"I'm human. _Excuse_ me." I stick my tongue out at him. "I've gotta be perfect twenty-four-seven as soon as I get up. So I'm not getting up yet."

He stands there, looking down at me. And then he flops down in the mud next to me, splashing mud onto my face.

"What are you doing?" I demand of him.

"Well, as long as we're being not perfect," I hear through mud settling into my ears. Inadvertently, I let my heart melt a little for a second. "And we should look the same. If there's cameras." That's the suspicious guy I've come to know.

I sigh and sit up, wring out some of the mud from my braid. In the process, I flick some in his face, and he squints his eyes shut. "Why would you do that?" he says, sounding very childish for a moment.

"Sorry. Accident. Long hair." I brush off some of the mud on my jacket sleeves and shoulders, don't bother with my pants, which are heavy and cold. "On second thought, this was a very bad decision."

He stands up, brushes off some of the major hunks of mud and looks at me blankly, annoyed. His hair is plastered to his head, but only the back half of his head, and it looks super weird. I just want to touch it.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he says.

"You've got something on your face." Where the hell did that excuse come from?

"Where?" He frowns.

I motion at the whole thing. "All of it, I guess. My fault." I scrape more mud off my head, flick it onto the ground. "Let's go back," I sigh. He doesn't answer; he just looks at me with eyes that are somehow bluer than I remember them being.

I guess that's a yes. So I start walking back towards the fence and he follows me, but I don't get the same sense of being protected by his presence as I did before. It feels like an empty hole next to me, just emptiness where he was before. "There's no way to convince you, is there," I say without looking at him.

"I… I don't know."

He's being honest, at least. I think that's kind of a thing with him. Even like this, he doesn't lie to me. He's hostile, but he doesn't lie. "Still want to stay on the same train car as me?" I ask, because no one's bothered to ask him that yet, and it's probably important.

"We have to. It's good for our story," he says.

He didn't mean to hurt me, I'm sure, but that doesn't help much. Of course he just wants to out of pure business sense. Of course. That's the response that makes sense. So I don't say anything as we keep moving on.

As we get closer to the fence, though, the feeling that something is terribly wrong grows. I can't explain it, but I need him to be quieter than he is right now. "Stop moving," I whisper, putting my hand out to stop him, but he stops before he touches my hand. There's definitely a sound by the fence, one that shouldn't be there. "Stay right here. Behind the tree," I whisper to him, and climb up into a sturdy tree.

Instantly, I almost fall out of the tree with pure shock and fear. There are Peacekeepers by the fence, bending back the wires Gale and I moved. We're stuck here.

I wait until I'm positive they won't hear me climb back down, then I carefully descend. Cato's waiting for me. "Peacekeepers. If they catch us we're dead."

"You don't have to tell me," he says. "So we're stuck."

"Unless you want to jump out of a tree-"

"Yes," he says immediately. "That's better than what they'll do to us."

"You would know," I concede. "Alright. Okay. It's this way. Try to walk quietly."

"I do walk quietly."

"Well, quietly-er." I almost smile, catch myself, and walk faster. I can't afford to fall for him again. Not now.

We get to the tree and he says, "I'll go first."

Whatever. It does take him an almost painfully long amount of time for him to get high enough to inch out over the fence on a long branch. I hold my breath when he jumps down – it looks so much like he's falling, and I'm so scared he'll break something or die. He stands up, though, perfectly okay, because he's invincible, of course.

So I climb up, crawl along the long branch, and let myself drop, reminding myself to land on my feet, not lock my knees, and not shatter my wrists. As it turns out, though, I don't have to worry about one of those things, because Cato catches me somehow, arms underneath my shoulders and knees. And that's how I end up looking deep into his eyes from a very close distance.

"Thanks for catching me," I say, somewhat breathlessly.

"You're welcome. And you know what?"

"What?"

He leans in a little closer, and says softly, "I know why I wanted to kiss you."

"Do you?"

"Yeah." For a second, I let myself believe that he might kiss me like he did before. He doesn't though, of course he doesn't. Instead, he puts me down. "We should go."


	24. Chapter 23

We go straight to the train, because we're very, very late.

Haymitch is beyond pissed off. "Where the _hell_ have you been?" he demands.

"Sorry." That's the only answer I'll give him, and Haymitch is too angry and hurried to dig deeper for the actual truth. He whisks us off to the train car devoted to our styling and clothes and sits us in chairs.

"You move from here and I'll murder you," he says, and then Cinna and the team come in to work on us. They have to split up to cover us both, Cinna and Flavius working on me and Octavia and Venia moving to take care of Cato. They despair over the mud in our hair, but a pinkish foam washes out the dirt easily, without being messy and wet.

They dress us in dark clothes, consistent with mourning for Rue, because Cinna knows that's what's going to be going on without me saying a thing. And they put flowers in my hair, identical to the ones I put over Rue's body. When I finally look over at Cato, I see he's got one of those flowers in his lapel.

"Haymitch, what do we do?" I ask him when he wanders back into the train car, holding a full bottle of while liquor.

"Give the speech that's going to be on the teleprompter. Do not deviate from the speech. Do you understand me?" he says.

"Teleprompter?" I say, baffled.

"Invisible to everybody but the kids on stage. Words for you guys to read. Not a big deal, sweetheart. Pull yourself together." He takes a swig from the bottle. "Had fun in the woods?" he asks.

"How do you know about that?" I frown at him suspiciously.

"Not an idiot. If he could see you running off, I definitely could. Losing your game, Katniss."

My frown turns into a pout. "Shut up," I mutter. "I was emotionally a wreck."

"Blah blah blah." He waves his hand. "Whatever you do, do NOT be inspiring."

I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. "Okay…?" I say hesitantly.

"Okay," he nods, and wanders out again.

They don't let us look at much of the district, whisking us through the streets and into the town hall. The mayor meets us and says bullshit things about how nice we look and whatever. I'm not listening, because Cato's taken my hand and he's holding it – not like how he did before, but better than in the interview, and I'm trying not to freak out.

Then, Effie pushes us out onto the stage. The entirety of district 11 is gathered in front of us, clapping, but I don't think for a minute they're enthusiastic about anything besides my friendship with Rue. Plus, Peacekeepers surround the crowds on all sides, stern and silent. Cato raises our linked hands and I try to smile victoriously. Once they quiet down, Cato gives his bullshit speech and then I step forwards and speak.

At first, I give the speech on the teleprompter. But then they have me talk about Rue's death, and I can't stay on cards for that. They want me to say she was a worthy tribute; that's not what comes out. "Rue was… a beautiful girl who didn't deserve to die that way," I say. "If I could've saved her, too, I would do it in a heartbeat. Thank you for sending me that bread. And thank you for the chance to know her." I look at the families of Rue and Thresh, at Rue's sister who stands just the same way as she did, like she's about to fly. "I'm truly sorry for your loss."

The sister nods solemnly, and I have to do something. Impulsively, I take a flower out of my hair and throw it to her. In the back of the crowd, one of the workers whistles, the four-note tune that Rue used to signal she was alright. I can't tell who it is at first, until he then salutes me the same way I saluted Rue. And then the whole crowd does, all at once.

My throat suddenly tight, I nod at them and say, "Thank you. Thank you all. May the odds be ever in your favor."

The whole situation feels tense, like a bubble about to burst. Thankfully, Effie rounds us up and ushers us off the stage nervously, chattering once we're backstage about how we did such a wonderful job, except maybe we could've stuck to the script a bit more. Haymitch is waiting for us backstage. "What the hell was that?" he demands of me.

"I was just trying to do the right thing," I say defensively.

"Yeah? Well why does that turn out to be the revolutionary thing so much of the time with you?" he says, reluctantly amused.

I scowl at him. "I don't know. Did I do something wrong?"

"Nah. They won't revolt quite yet. But…" He doesn't finish that. "Get into your car and stay there. We'll be leaving soon for ten. Don't inspire anyone else," he says sternly to me.

I nod, and we go.

We get through the next nine districts in seven days. Cato and I barely speak to each other the whole time. No more going off-script for the families of tributes. No real closeness between the two of us, even though we act together on-stage.

The nightmares get worse for me, where I wake up with my throat raw from screaming long before I shocked myself into consciousness. And waking up isn't even a comfort anymore, because Cato isn't there to hold me any more. Haymitch sometimes comes in on the bad nights, but mostly, I'm alone.

And then one night, I have the worst dream I can ever remember. I dream Prim goes into the games, because I can't speak up to volunteer, and I have to watch her get killed. By Cato. I wake up that time, screaming and crying, my face and pillows wet with tears, and Cato's standing in the door, about to walk into the room.

I don't acknowledge him at first; it takes everything I have to stop screaming and lie there in bed, panting and trying to not cry anymore. He talks first. "Are you okay?"

"Hell no." My voice is torn to shreds, completely gravely and gross.

"What'd you dream about?"

He asked. "You killed Prim. She was the tribute, and you killed her."

"I'm sorry."

"No, stop it. I didn't tell you because I want you to be sorry. I know what's real and not. Telling those apart is your problem. Not mine."

A long pause. "Are you mad at me?"

I sniff, take several deep breaths, and wipe off some of my tears. "No, I just… I need some time to process everything. You're… you're not yourself, I know, and I'm not mad about that. And I don't think you'd kill Prim. Me, maybe. Not Prim."

"I wouldn't kill you."

"Good to know."

"Can I do anything?"

"No. I'm fine."

Before, he would've argued, at least. Now, he just nods and leaves me alone.

As usual, we separate after the presentation in district 3 to change in our respective bedrooms and change into more normal clothes. We end up in the same room, though, the only other room than our bedrooms. I curl up on the couch and pretend to watch whatever's on while I eat copious amounts of everything on the table. And Cato paces around impatiently, unable to stand still. "You might want to eat something," I suggest after quite a while, once the train's started moving again.

"Don't tell me what to do."

If that's how he's going to be, then fine. "Just trying to help," I mutter, glaring at him.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I care about you," I say once I've swallowed my mouthful of stew.

"Really, though? Do you? Seems like you just need someone to make you look good."

"How could you say that? I-"

"Cried. Yeah, I know. Lot of good that's done me in the Capitol."

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you think I've been doing, all those times I went there?" he demands.

"I don't know. Something for Snow." I shrug, take another bite.

"And you're fine with just leaving it at that? Yeah. I can really tell you care."

"Look. You didn't want me to worry about it. You said it was fine. I trusted you." I'm starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Why, what's happened there?"

"Oh, you trusted me. Nice excuse. Lets you sit at home while I'm whoring it up for the rich and famous. Glad your conscience is clear."

It feels like he shot me in stomach; same stunned numbness, same horror. "What?" I say weakly, putting down my spoon and putting the bowl in my lap. I don't believe it – but worse, I do.

"You heard me."

"But when you say… w-what do you mean?" I stutter.

"Like you don't know," he scoffs.

"I don't know. Cato, I don't have your lifetime of training about the games to know things from. What are you talking about?" I say desperately.

He sighs, and his face suddenly looks older and more tired. "Victors who are desirable get… rented out to Capitol citizens who can pay. Snow controls the whole arrangement," he says. "So the secret's out. That's what I do in the Capitol."

"Wait. Why'd he choose you? And why didn't he pick me?"

"What, are you offended?"

"No. I just don't understand it. Wouldn't it make more sense…" I can't finish the sentence, because I'm so shocked and disgusted, and it feels like I've cracked open and I'm just one big raw wound.

"Yeah. It would. And he did come to talk to you about it. I… I volunteered to do it for you," he says. "It's the only way Haymitch and I could think of to keep you safe."

"Wait. You wanted to keep me safe?"

"Yeah, I did, before. I can remember that. Don't know if it was smart, but that's what happened, alright?" he says, and sits heavily on the same couch as me.

I shake my head. "I don't understand." I put the bowl of stew on the table behind the couch, to get it out of the way.

"What are you, too pure to get the concept?" he says, snapping back into sarcasm. "What don't you understand about it? The part where I have sex with people or the one where I have to listen to them talking about how they want to take you next?"

"What? No, I-" There's tears in my eyes.

"Do you have any idea what I've been doing?" he cuts me off. "For you? They're all so disgusting there. Especially behind closed doors. They don't care about me. They tell me about the things they want to do to you, y'know. Or what they want me to do to you. You can't imagine half of what they've said. And I don't even know why I'm still doing this for you," he says, crossing arms. For a second he almost seems small.

"I am so sorry," I choke out through my tears. "Cato, I had no idea. I'm really sorry." Not thinking, I reach out for him, but he flinches away.

"No, don't," he says. "I'm… don't."

"Why?"

"Just don't touch me. I don't know how I let you do it before."

"No, I'm going to give you a hug, because I am so sorry, and I can't believe you did that for me. I didn't know. I would never have let that happen. I'm sorry," I repeat, because that's all I can think of to say. Then I move over towards him and don't let him flinch away from me because I don't care if he doesn't want me to touch him. I get up on my knees so I can reach my arms around his shoulders and hug him.

It's not like hugging him before. He didn't use to stiffen whenever I touched him, didn't try to stand up to get away. I have sit directly on top of his lap to make him stop attempting to move. "Stop it," I say. "Let me hug you."

"Why?" he says uncomfortably, not moving.

"Because I loved you. And I think maybe you loved me, too."

He doesn't answer for a moment. "I think you're right," he finally says.

"Look, we'll figure out a way to make this stop, I promise," I say. "I don't care what we have to do, this isn't going to happen anymore. I'm so sorry."

Hesitantly, he puts his hands on my back, like he's scared I'll break. "Yeah, well, thanks for the thought or whatever. You can't stop it, though," he says. "It's you or me. And it shouldn't be you. So there's really not another option."

"Not that I want it to be me, but why do you say it shouldn't be?" I ask, because I'm trying to focus on parts of what he said in pieces.

He takes a deep breath; I can feel a hint of a shake as he exhales, and I hold him tighter. "It's just not… it's not right. I don't even know… anything, about what's actually true or whatever, but you shouldn't… no. Just don't do anything. He could make us both do it if we fight with him. I guess I was convincing or something."

"You arranged it?" I say, and I guess maybe that should be flattering, that he loved me so much to do something like that for me, but I'm just horrified. This never should've happen to anyone, especially him.

"Yeah, I…wait."

I wait. He's quiet for a really long time, perfectly still, but I can hear his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing speeds up. "They forgot one," he says after a second. "It didn't matter before. But they forgot it."

"What are you talking about?" I ask. He's clearly had an epiphany and left me far behind.

"I remember you. After I came back. And I wasn't sure if you'd be there because we were fighting. I remember that," he says.

I don't understand why that's so important. "I though you had all your memories before."

"No, Katniss, I remember how it really was. How we felt," he says hesitantly. "They changed all the other memories where I knew how I felt. Except this one."

I pull back to look at him, to make sure this isn't some terrible sort of joke. "You're serious? You're not… you're not screwing with me?"

"No. I really do."

"All of a sudden? Why didn't you realize this sooner?"

"No, I did, but I thought I was being crazy, thinking that you…" He stops and looks me straight in the eyes. "You said you love me. Like the blonde kid loved you. You said that."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't put that together until now. I thought you were trying... you cared about me," he says, like he's just getting this because I guess he is.

"I… yeah." I don't tell him that I still do. It's too stupid. But when he asks,

"Did I screw it up?"

I can answer without hesitation, "No."

His face flickers between a few things; shock, disbelief, happiness, more disbelief. And then he settles on looking like he's sad for some reason. And then he grabs me tightly, pulls me against him and crushes me into his chest.

"So you don't think I'm secretly out to get you?" I say before I let myself feel anything.

"No. I'm sorry. No." His grip on me gets even tighter, which should hurt, but it just feels good, because he's back – the him I know, not this new him who doesn't trust me. And now I am really relieved, because I'm not alone anymore.

"Are you going to keep remembering this now?"

"I don't know. I hope so. Trying not to think about that right now. It's not going to be the same, though," he says. For the millionth time, I'm glad he's so honest with me.

"Okay." I can live with that.

"Okay good or okay bad?" he asks. I'd almost guarantee he's nervous.

"Neither." I pull back and look at him from inches away, and he's a little blurry, because there are tears in my eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm great." I lock my hands around the back of his neck. "I just… I wasn't sure I'd be able to do this without you," I say, taking a deep breath for the first time in I don't know how long. "I'm really glad I don't have to find out."

"You would've been fine."

It's not true, but I don't want to argue with him. "We're going to talk, okay? About what… what happened. To you."

He wrinkles his nose. "Why?"

"Because you're hurting. And now that I know, I'm not gonna leave you alone about it."

"You should."

"I won't. That's the obnoxious part of caring about people. Sorry." I'm not sorry.

Now that he's letting me touch him, hold him, be close to him, I can't stop myself from silently promising that I'll never let go. His face looks so smooth and perfect, even up close, that I just want to touch it. And while before, I may've held myself back, I don't now, because I know that I might lose the chance.

Slowly, I unclasp my hands and run my finger over his eyebrow, from his nose to his temple. He doesn't move except to blink, and his eyelashes brush my skin. "What're you doing?" he asks in a voice barely above a whisper.

I shrug a bit, and don't stop, tracing his features. I finish with his lips, brushing them for a just second because suddenly, I'm feeling kind of weird and Cato's looking at me, strangely intense. "Sorry. That was weird," I say softly.

"No, it wasn't." He picks me up and turns us so I'm sitting against the couch and he's on top of me, knees on either side of my legs, sitting on my lap. Just as gently as I did, he carefully traces my eyebrows, cheek, nose. And then his rough fingers are on my lips, gentle and light. I smile for just a second, but then I can't smile because he's kissing me.

It isn't like the last time we kissed, before he left, because this time, we know what it's like to live without the other, so I guess the change is that the innocence is gone. This kiss is completely different. It's less of a question and more like an answer. And he isn't as gentle as before, but not in a bad way. It's all so much more intense and heated, and I'm surprised to find that I really like it.

He breaks it off for a second, but stays close enough to me that I can feel his breath on my lips. "I don't know if I'll remember this later," he says, "but I love you right now."

I can't think of anything to say in response, so I don't talk, I just kiss him again, pulling him closer to me and loving how heavy he is on top of me, how _here_ he is.

I'm kind of sliding down the couch, because he's so big and can move me without really trying, and when I'm practically lying down, he nudges me over so I'm lying down on the couch and he's propped up over me on his elbows. And he hardly stops kissing me the whole time, which is breathtaking and exhilarating, but somehow still sweet.

He kisses his way over to the side of my neck, starts to move down a little. I barely have the time to worry about if I want this right now, if I'm ready, before he stops, pulling back and looking at me with a strange mix of what looks like apology, admiration, and something else, something weird.

"What's going on?" I ask, sitting up part of the way. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm… I can't…"

Something's seriously wrong, but I'm not going to push the issue. "It's fine," I say. "Don't freak out." I reach up and run my hand through his hair, petting him almost, because he looks so freaked out I just want to comfort him. "Everything's okay, though?"

"Yeah." We both sit up, and he lets me get close to him, curl up into his side, so I know it's not something I've done wrong, which is reassuring. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's fine. That's not why we're… why we _were_ together. It's okay," I repeat. "You gonna tell me why you just flipped out, though?"

He hesitates. "I guess. If you think it matters."

"Yeah, I do."

Cato sighs, then reaches behind us and plops my bowl of stew in my lap, and that small gesture makes me smile like an idiot. I take several bites while he thinks; somehow, it's still good even though it's now mostly cold, and now he's next to me, which is so much better than before.

"I just… I accidentally thought about… I don't know. Some of the… people. From the Capitol. And I couldn't… I'm not… good," he finally completes a sentence. "I'm not. And you don't deserve that. So I… I don't…"

"What are you trying to say? You don't want to be with me because you don't feel like you deserve me?" I screw up my face as I talk, because it sounds so weird to say that.

"No. Kind of, but no. I do… I love you," he says again, forcing the words out uncomfortably. "But… you don't know what they've made me do. I'm… not the same, I can't… I don't know if I can do this."

"This as in us sitting here?"

"No, this as in… other stuff. More than that. Y'know…"

This is way more awkward than I know how to handle. "Okay," I cut him off. "Okay, fine, stop. I get it. And I don't care. So let's just… not talk about it."

"But-"

"There is no but. I said I don't care and I mean it. I'm not dating you for your… anything. I just like _you_. Do you really think I'd be that petty?" I crane my neck up towards him. "Hey, c'mere." He leans down, and I kiss him on the cheek. "Calm down," I say.

"Alright." I'm not looking at him, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm not dating you for your anything either," he says after a second.

"Okay." My turn to smile, and I stay curled up into his side, because I'll never get tired of him having his arm around me.

Haymitch finds us like that when he comes in to check on us a few hours later. "Oh," he says, moderately surprised. "I see we've made amends. What happened?"

"I remember," Cato says. "How it felt."

"Yeah?" Haymitch sits down in a chair and looks at us with interest. "What happened?"

"They changed all the memories where I knew… how I felt. Except they missed one."

"So you're back, just like that?"

"I don't know. But it's enough for now. I can believe you guys are telling the truth. And I don't think that's going to go away."

Cato's being more open with him than he was with me – guess it's easier to talk to someone who isn't possibly in a relationship with you. And Haymitch is very impressed. "Do you think this is going to work long-term?" he asks.

"Don't know."

"Alright. Well, try to make it last. Don't forget how you feel right now."

"I won't."

"Okay. Then for now, it's good to have you back," Haymitch says gruffly. "We'll be in 1 tomorrow morning. Get a good night's sleep tonight. You'll need it to lug around one huge-ass dress. I don't know where Cinna found all those gemstones. Didn't think that many existed in the universe."

"Great." I heave a large, unenthusiastic sigh. "I'm going need more food to deal with this." I get up and refill my bowl with more good-smelling food that I'm sure has recognizable ingredients. "Want anything?" I ask Cato.

"No."

I shrug. "Your loss." The one thing I'm going to miss when we're back home is this food. As I'm munching on some crunchy chips of something, I realize something. "Wait. Haymitch."

"Yeah?"

"You knew about him doing the… stuff, in the Capitol?"

"Yep." He pops the P.

"And you didn't tell me _why_?"

"Because you couldn't do anything about it, sweetheart. That was his thing to deal with. Not yours," he says, shrugging. "Don't be offended."

"What about now? We can stop it, right? We have to, he can't… this is wrong," I say, sitting back down next to Cato.

"Sorry to break it to you, but nothing's changing just because you know," Haymitch shrugs. "Snow isn't going to magically decide to go easy on you and not need one of you to do this. We're lucky he's not making both of you do it."

Cato said something similar to that, I remember, so I'm pretty sure they're not lying. But I fell terrible about it. "But this isn't okay," I say helplessly.

Haymitch seems unsympathetic. "Alright. But all the moral outrage in the world is never going to change anything. So how about instead of being upset and girly about the whole thing, you appreciate that boy there on the couch who's doing everything for you."

"I do appreciate him," I say, sitting back down next to him and letting him put his arm around me again. "A lot. It's-"

"Yeah? Well however much you do, it's not enough. I can guarantee that."

He's probably right; he's right about everything usually. So I say, "Okay."

"While you feel like this, make sure you get some public pictures of kissing or whatever. Boost up the rep in case something happens. Even if you think you'll never forget this, there's no telling what Snow will try next," Haymitch says, getting up and pouring booze into a glass.

"Who says he'll try something else? He might leave us alone, right?" I say hopefully.

"Nope. No chance," Haymitch shakes his head. "He has it out for you, personally."

This is news to me. "What? Why?"

"Because you showed the nation he's not invincible. Two victors came out of that arena and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. The country didn't fall apart, anarchy didn't break out in all the districts, nobody died, fire didn't rain from the sky. You're a threat. And this kid is pretty much along for the ride. No offense," he adds, looking at Cato.

Cato smiles tightly and shrugs, nods. "I'm not dead. So I'm doing pretty good." And with his arm around me and food in my lap, I'm sure I'm doing good, too.

"That's the spirit. I'll spread the word that you guys are sleeping in the same bed tonight," Haymitch says, and wanders out into the next car.

"Do we have to actually do that?" I ask Cato uncomfortably.

"I don't know. If you want to," he says, and I get the distinct feeling that he's scared to say the wrong thing.

"Um. Well, as long as you don't mind getting woken up by me screaming." I shrug.

"Nah, I'm used to it now," he shrugs.

I nod, chewing, and then I finally ask, "So are you ever gonna get upset by things?"

"What? Yeah, all the time. Why do you have to ask that?" he says, sounding amused.

"Because you haven't been anything but really calm around me."

"Well, that's different. But I guess I was trying to."

"Why's that?"

"Well, they really don't teach us how to be… normal. When we got mad, they told us to beat the hell out of each other. And I've figured out that doesn't exactly work well in the real world."

He's joking. I don't know if I'll ever get used to that. "Really?" I say.

"Yeah."

"Wow. They really don't prepare you very well for… life, do they."

"Not life outside of the district."

I nod, eat some more. "So you just beat the crap out of people who pissed you off?"

He hesitates before he answers. "Yeah, well… yeah." There's a very long pause where I eat more food. "Hate me yet?" he asks.

"Stop it, no. So is this just a thing, does everybody do that?"

"Yeah. It's how they keep us from getting friendly with each other."

"Damn." After that, I'm ready to drop it, but then something occurs to me. "Did your mom train for the games?" I frown. It would definitely explain why she's a violent bitch.

"Yeah. Didn't get picked for them, though."

"Oh. So it's like a family thing?"

"Yeah. My two older brothers went in. Didn't win."

I twist around and look at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"And I'm just finding out now? Seriously?"

"It's not a big deal. Everybody knows somebody who's gone in and not come out," he says, looking at me like he's worried I'm going to not like what he says. "Is that bad?"

"No, it's just… different than I'm used to." I settle back into him. "So. Two older brothers."

"Mica and Gaius. They went in two and seven years ago, I think. Gaius was beheaded. Mica froze to death. Last four every time." He sounds reluctantly proud of his family.

"That's… that's terrible. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He sounds baffled as to why he wouldn't be.

"You're something special," I say, shaking my head, because he is. He's unlike anyone I know, in almost every way, and I can't say that I really mind that. After everything that's happened, I need something like that.

Cato's silent for a moment. "Thanks."

"And I'm not going to leave you alone anywhere now, okay? We'll stay in the same districts and switch off, I guess, if you want to keep training or something."

"Okay. Well, that might not work out, though. If Snow threatened you, he'll probably do it again. And I probably won't remember you again. So it's not worth your effort." He pauses for a second and says, "Sorry. But that's just the truth."

"Maybe most of that. But it's up to me if it's worth the effort." I subside into a contented silence for a minute. "You should make something to remind yourself again, in case it happens. Write a letter."

"Letters can be faked. I wouldn't believe it. I could make a video," he suggests after a second. "And give it to you guys for safe-keeping."

"Sure. Yeah, that's fine. Let's do that. We can talk to Haymitch and get the stuff to do it."

"Okay." His arm tightens on me. "But why is this important to you?"

"What, that you remember?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, because I… love you," I force out, although the words feel too weird in my mouth, chalky and sweet. "And don't want to see you like that. You were so… scared, kind of. And mad, you had so much rage. When you don't remember us, you're… broken, and hurt. And I hate seeing you like that."

"I'm like that because that's how I really am," he says in a low voice.

Hell, I'm an idiot. Of course that's why. "But why aren't you like that now?"

"Cuz I don't think about it when I'm with you. You… you let me forget that I'm… who I am. "

"And who's that?"

"You… don't want to know."

"I do. I really do."

"I'm not a good person," he says, stiffening with nervousness. "You don't know half of what I've done. When we got into fights, I was the one who started them. I _liked_ fighting. I smashed people's faces in and I liked it, alright? And now that I've met you, I know I was wrong, but sometimes I can forget about what happened. What I've done."

"Like what?" I say, partially out of morbid curiosity, but also because I need to know. I'm not uncomfortable near him; I don't think he'd ever hurt me, but I also have to accept that he's hurt others because he liked it.

"Can't I just not tell you? You don't need to know," I tries to say.

"Yes, I do. I'm not going to stop liking you. Please. Just tell me one thing."

He hesitates. "They had me hurt my sister and brother. And I did it. I didn't argue."

"I… I don't… you hurt them?"

"What are you, stupid? That's what I said. They told me to help the kids train, so I did. I punched Silas in the face; he had a black eye for two weeks."

"Stop."

"Broke Sophia's arm."

"Stop," I repeat.

"And I didn't even think twice about it."

"Cato-"

"You wanted to know," he says, and I get the feeling he's trying to throw it back in my face.

"Yeah. I still do, but you're taunting me. I know you've done terrible things. I've decided to trust that you've changed, and I'm ready to look past it, okay? But you've gotta get okay with it, too. It seems like you hate yourself for this more than I ever could. Especially because I'm not judging you." I put down my food on the closest table and turn to him, sitting on top of my feet. I look him in the eyes. "I don't hate you for this."

"Katniss. Don't," he says dismissively and looks away from me.

"I'm serious, honey, I am." I find his hand and hold it in mine.

"You can't be."

"I am one hundred percent serious. I didn't date you because I thought you were perfect."

Finally, he looks me in the eyes. "We're still dating?"

"Yeah. Unless you broke up with me and I missed it."

"Oh." He's relieved for a second, then he can't look at me again. "And you still claim not to hate me?" he says skeptically.

"It's not a _claim_, it's true. I heard what you said, and I don't care. If that's how things go in your district, then that's what happens."

"So you're just going to…"

"Forgive you," I say, when he can't get the word out. "Yeah. I do."

He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, and then he says, "How can you do that? You're not crazy, and you're not stupid."

"Yeah, well I like you. And I believe in you. So I'm cutting you some slack." He doesn't reply. "You're not used to that, are you."

"No." It's almost an answer, barely more than a twitch of his lips, and it makes me sadder than I ever thought it would, even though I kind of saw it coming.

So I tell him gently, "Get used to it, kid." I lean forwards quickly and kiss him quickly on the lips. And then, even though I know it's cheesy and stupid, he needs to hear this from me right now, so I say, "I love you."

Cato frowns for half a second, then he sighs. "We're stupid for each other, aren't we."

"Yep," I smile. "We are."

He pulls me closer with one arm and I curl up into him, putting my legs over his. "Let's stay together while I remember," he says, and I can't exactly argue with that.

We sit there together for a couple hours, eventually turning on the TV and watching our speeches, which are pretty much on a loop on every channel, interspersed with commentary from the other victors, including Haymitch. He's gruff, as usual, but when they ask him about Cato, he supports him hardcore.

"No, I absolutely think he's a true victor. He did a fantastic job in the games. Played them best of everyone in there. His training put him at the top of the year's tributes and I'm confident he'll continue to bring honor and pride to his district," he says, staring straight into the camera for that last part.

"Safe to say he likes you now," I observe, patting his hand on my stomach. "So you don't have to worry about that, at least."

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

"Are you okay?" I twist around and attempt to look at his face, but it's hard since he's directly behind me. "You sound weird."

"I'm fine."

"Alright…" I say, unsure. But he's pretty much spilled his guts to me tonight, so I leave him alone. We watch some more shows until the sky coming past the train windows is completely dark. Then, when I suggest it might be time to hit the hay, he picks me up without any effort and carries me to my bedroom.

I kind of want to argue with how easily he moves me around, just based on the principle of the matter, but I also kind of like it, so this time, I shut up and let him. He puts me down gently on the bed and just stands there. "Come on," I prompt after a second, and he slides into the bed. Of course, as soon as he does, I realize the light is off, and I'll feel like a jerk if I ask him to go turn it off, so I get up and do it, then get back in bed with him.

The bed's very small and we end up facing each other, so close that I can feel his breaths on my neck and chest, but it's weird because I can't see his face. "Hi," I whisper.

"Hi," he whispers back, and adds after a long pause, "I love you."

"And I love you, too," I smile curiously. "But where's that coming from?"

"Wherever this is from." He moves about an inch closer to me, and we're kissing, gently and very softly. He scoots back a little and puts his hand on my cheek, then smooths down my eyebrow with his thumb. "You're beautiful," he says.

"You can't even see me," I point out.

"Shut up." He exhales half a laugh. His hand goes to the back of my neck and then down my arm to my hand. I roll over and scoot back against him, so his arm is over me. He doesn't move for a second, and then he holds me close.

I have to admit, I really like him against my back. The hard muscle of his chest and shoulder is reassuring, his arm over me comforting. Nothing's going to get to me while he's here. I don't have to worry about anything. I can sleep.


	25. Chapter 24

**A/N: Happy fourth of July! To all my fellow Americans, FREEDOM. To all the rest of you, I like you too. :) **

**Thanks for all the reviews/comments – the whole system has been changed, so they're coming up like three separate ways, but I'm pretty sure we broke 600 this time, so you're due for a bonus. What do you want? I'll get it done in a way more timely manner this time, hopefully. **

**Also, to all the anon reviewers and readers, if you're reading a lot of things on here, please make an account! Then I can actually reply to some of the things you've said! **

**We're in the homestretch now. Only like four or so more chapters until this is finished, which is awesome but also bittersweet. I'm writing a sequel for sure, already starting to work on it, but there will be a hiatus between the end of this and it's beginning. I've got some extra bonus-y things for the end ready, with like character thoughts and my backstories on people. **

**On the subject of bonus things, during the hiatus I'll still be super active on my tumblr (significationary). I'll probably be rather free with the spoilers. (aka ask me questions and I'll most likely answer them) **

**Jawsome, I have your last review open in a window and there's really not much I can say in response besides damn. I think you put more thought into this story than almost anyone else. (myself not included) To all the rest of you, whether you just found the story or you've been with it from the start, I owe you. You're awesome. *mwah!* (that's a kiss)**

I don't sleep for very long. Him remembering doesn't magically make my nightmares go away. Actually, this one's worse than usual; I dream that Gale's down in the mines with my father when it explodes, and Prim gets mauled by the Peeta mutt and Cato gets killed defending her because I can't move. They're all dead and then I'm left alone, normal, and not dead.

I wake up with tears soaking my face, and I can't even scream because I'm crying too hard, hard hiccupping sobs that tear up my throat on their way out and rip my heart out along with them.

It takes me a few panicked seconds to realize what's going on. Cato's sitting on top of me, holding my arms down with his huge hands and pinning down my lower half by sitting on my thighs. "Katniss," he says loudly, with a tone that implies he's called my name several times before.

I can't answer, but I feel like I should say something, let him know I can hear him now. I just end up shaking my head and crying harder. He doesn't move for a while, holding me still just in case I try to move again.

"You're okay?" he says quietly.

"Yeah. You?" I gasp out, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Well. You punched me in the face."

"What? I'm sorry." I wiggle one arm free and turn on the bedside lamp. He's got a red mark on his chin already bruising and scratches on his cheek. But he doesn't seem bothered by it; he calmly pins me back down, just in case I go nuts again, I guess.

"It's fine. You're done hitting me?"

"Yeah." I nod, and he takes some of the weight off my shoulders, sitting back a little.

"Bad dream?"

I kind of laugh through my sobs, because that's such an understatement. "Yeah."

"I didn't hurt anyone, did I?"

"No, no, you protected Prim, actually. But you all still died." I take a deep, shuddering breath, and close my eyes for a second, remind myself that none of that was real. "Sorry I hit you," I say again, because that's seriously going to be a dark bruise by morning.

"Not a problem." He lets go of my shoulders completely and sits back on his heels, looking at me intently. "What do you need from me?"

I don't have an answer for that, so I shake my head and keep crying.

After a moment, he pulls me up to him and holds me close to his chest, so he's sitting half in my lap but cradling me against his chest comfortingly. "It was just a dream," he says, and I get the feeling that it's the only thing he can think of to say.

"I know." But it could be real, and that's really what scares me.

"Are you going to go back to sleep?"

"Probably not. Don't worry about it. You can go back to sleep," I tell him, forcing myself to breathe normally. "I'm gonna be okay. I just… need some time."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm… yeah." I nudge him off my legs and scoot back so I'm sitting against the headboard. "I'm sure," I repeat, and after a second, he lies down, though it seems he's just trying to make me feel better, but that's okay. I reach over and turn off the light.

"You sure you don't want anything?" he says quietly.

"Yeah. Just… go back to sleep."

He awkwardly pats my leg, and I smile and put my hand over his, put my other hand on the side of his head. I've missed touching him like this, like we're close to each other. He's the only person who's like this with me – the only one who I've wanted to be like this with, too. And I'm so, so indescribably happy he's back with me.

He's way less fidgety than anyone else I've known. I mean Gale can become a statue when he needs to, like out in the woods or hiding from something, I've seen it, but it's different. Cato's motionless _all_ the time. I think it's probably something about his training, but now doesn't seem like the right time to ask. Another thing on the long list of things I wonder about his childhood, or lack thereof.

Part of me doesn't expect him to actually sleep; he's been with his trainers for the past few months. Probably went back to the two hours a night thing he was doing before.

So I'm prepared to sit here with him lying down while neither of us sleep, but somewhere along the line, he actually does fall asleep. I don't – the images of everyone I love dead are still too fresh in my mind. It's unexpectedly nice, though, to sit here in the dark while he sleeps. Him asleep is so different than all the other hims, and I like all of them.

At first, I wonder if he's going wake up with a nightmare again, but it seems like that's not going to happen. He sleeps for about an hour straight, I think, and I start to think he's not going to jerk awake, so I actually drift off a bit myself. Of course, that's when things change.

He stiffens for a second and I wrench my eyes open, mumble some kind of response but he's not really listening. His arm shoots out to me, over my legs, and it's pretty clear he's checking to make sure I'm here. "Hey," I say softly. Cato says something unintelligible. I think he's actually still sleeping, which is weird. "Cato," I say louder.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

"Mmhmm."

"Why'd you just do that?"

"Bad dream."

"About what?"

"Nothin'."

I'm pretty sure now that he's talking in his sleep. "Are you still asleep?"

"Mmhmm. Shh."

I smile a little, because he's being really accidentally adorable. "Me shh?"

"Mmm. Sleep. You sleep." He pulls me down and holds me close, clumsy with sleep but still just as strong. When I try to talk, he reaches up for my mouth and covers it. "Shh." So I stop trying and let him hold me. As I lie there in his warm embrace, I discover I'm actually tired, and a few minutes later, I fall asleep again, for the first time I can remember.

I wake up with his arms still around me, the two of us curled around each other in the small bed, somehow comfortable. I'm pretty sure he's asleep when I wake up, but the instant I start to move, he lets go of me and sits up.

"Sorry, did I wake you up?" I say, rubbing my eyes.

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm fine."

He's acting a little weird, so I look at him suspiciously. "Do you remember everything?"

"Yep."

But he still looks strange. "Is something wrong then?"

"Nope."

This is obviously not true. "Are you lying to me?" I ask, frowning.

"Yeah," he nods, completely comfortable with admitting it, which is somehow weirder than if he lied about it to me.

Something's definitely going on. I sit back down on the bed, hugging my legs close to me nervously. "Why aren't you telling me? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad?"

"Not at you."

"And you're not going to explain that any more?"

"Why do you even want to know?"

"Because I'm worried about you. And I care about you."

He still looks unconvinced. "Maybe I'm just different now. Maybe this is how I'll be forever."

"Okay. I still want to know why that is," I say, making myself sound calm, because that's what I do when I don't know how to respond. Maybe if I'm calm, he'll stop being so weird.

"You know where we're going tomorrow?" he says.

That's when everything clicks. "District 2."

"And the last time I was there, they injected me with tracker jacker venom and-" Abruptly, he stops and changes the sentence. "My parents aren't happy with me, either, and Sophia says I'm a disgrace to the family."

"What, and can you not handle it?"

Before I can add something about how it's not a problem if that's true, he says, "I can, but I'll change again, and… I don't want to do that."

"Why?"

"Are you serious?" he asks, giving me a confused, almost disgusted look.

"Yeah, I really-"

"If I go back there, I could hate you again. Wouldn't even take a lot to get me there again. Do you really want that to happen?"

"No, of course not. But why wouldn't it take a lot?"

"You kidding? I barely believe that you're actually…" He motions at me. "…here, I guess. I don't know. It'd make more sense if you were playing me."

"But I'm not."

"No, I know, but it'd make more sense if you were. So I guess they didn't have to try all that hard to convince me the first time, so it'd probably be easy the second time, too. And I don't want to risk that," he says, looking at the corner and not at me.

Great. His weird mood is because of me. He's just nervous because he wants to stay with me. I officially feel awful about saying anything besides comforting things. "That won't happen," I say now, wanting to reach out for him but restraining myself.

"Yeah? Why?" he snorts.

"Because I'll be there this time. I won't let anything happen."

"You can't promise that."

"The last time I made a promise, I promised my sister I'd win the games. I delivered on that one, didn't I?" I say.

He sighs. "Yes."

"Alright. I am making you a promise right now. I won't let you forget. And if there's anything I can do, I'll keep all of them away from you, okay?"

Cato looks at me seriously. "You can't talk to Snow," he says – no room for argument.

"No, I mean your mom and dad, and the trainers," I say. I don't agree with him about me not being able to do anything about Snow's deal with him, but that's going to have to wait, I guess. At least he's not going during the tour.

"Oh. Okay." He looks kind of embarrassed, and I can imagine that's because he doesn't like the implication that he needs me to fight his battles for him.

"I… I don't think you're any less of a victor or something," I say uncomfortably. "You're… it's just, you're not the only protective one here, okay? And I fight for the people that I… love." I mutter the last word, very disgusted with myself. Quickly, I add, "Just let me take care of you this time."

"Fine," he says.

"We should probably go get dressed."

"Hold on."

I turn back to look at him, ask him what's going on, but I don't get the chance. He's closer than I thought, because for the first time, he hugs me first. And although he has hugged me back every time, it wasn't like this. For the first time, he almost crushes the breath out of me with his huge arms, holding me more tightly than ever before. "I love you," he says.

"Okay?" I say, hesitantly putting my arms around his massive back. Not that I mind, but this is just so completely different than everything else he's done. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm…" Very long pause. "Let's do this," he says, and before I can let go of him, he picks me up, sweeps my legs to one side, and carries me out to the main room of the train car.

Haymitch walks in while we're eating breakfast, looking at Cato with narrowed eyes. "I assume you haven't forgotten," he says with an appreciative glance at the non-existent space between the two of us.

"Nope," Cato agrees. "Not yet."

I glare at him, then ask Haymitch, "When are the designers going to be here?"

"Like two seconds. I just was making sure if you were awake. They'll be here…" He pauses. "Now," he says, pointing at the door right as it opens and Cinna leads the team in.

"Hey Cinna," I smile. Spending more time with him only has reinforced my opinion of him being amazing, kind, and more reasonable than most Capitol citizens. His dresses never fail to somehow make me look beautiful. Although I'm worried about what Haymitch said before, about the dress being heavy, I don't doubt that it'll look perfect.

"Katniss," he nods once, smiling a little. "Ready for this dress?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I shrug, standing up and reluctantly letting go of Cato's hand to walk over to Cinna. "Let me see it."

It takes both Flavius and Octavia to hold the dress, which isn't a good sign. It's a ball gown with a tight bodice and full skirt, and the entire thing is covered in gemstones. Most of it is rippling shades of blue, from a deep midnight blue to a lighter aqua, light at the bottom and dark at the top. Around the waist and the bottom of the skirt, though, are small threads of rainbow gems, wound together in loose and messy braids.

"What are they?" I ask, mesmerized by the sparkling colors.

"Sapphires. All of them. The rainbow sapphires were harder to come by, but I figured you had to impress this district particularly," Cinna smiles.

"Will I be able to _walk_ in this?" I raise one eyebrow.

"It's lighter when it's on you," he promises.

"And for Cato?" I say

"I need to have some surprises," Cinna says mischievously. He sits me in a chair with my back to Cato and does the same to him. Then, the now-familiar process begins.

First is my face; they don't have to do much, since they've been taking care of my face for the past week solid, just some highlighting here and there. As they're doing this, Flavius is fussing with my hair, tugging on parts in an itchy way and spraying me with a suspicious amount of hairspray. Gold earrings and a lacy gold necklace and bracelet set of feather-light chains are fastened around me.

Finally, my dress. They unfasten part of it somehow and have me step into it so they can pull it up and zipper and hook it into place. It's heavy, but not unbearably so, and the skirt almost magically puffs out without layers of fluffy fabric beneath it. "It's wonderful," I say, and as usual, I don't have to fake my happiness.

"Your hair looks amazing," I hear from behind me. I can't turn as quickly as I want to in the dress, but eventually I get around and see Cato in his suit. It's dark blue, with a rainbow sapphire pin in the lapel and matching cufflinks. His pocket square is blood red, along with his tie. Overall, he looks very sharp.

"Um, thanks," I say, recovering from being momentarily stunned into silence. "Why, what's different about it?"

My team flutters around me with hand mirrors, tilting them so I can see the back of my head. My hair is woven into a hairdo that almost looks knitted into place. Strung through the latticework is strands of more sapphires set in gold. It looks spectacular.

"Oh," I say. "That _is_ pretty cool."

Cinna performs a small bow. "Of course. Now get out there and wow them."

Haymitch ushers us to the door. I hesitate at the door, feeling a slight hitch in my stomach that I haven't felt before. "Hey," Haymitch mutters. "Don't stress. Say the canned lines. You've got this."

"I know," I say, but I don't really feel confident until Cato slips his hand into mine. "You nervous?" I ask him.

"No. I practiced my whole life for this. I don't get nervous."

"Great." I straighten up and throw my shoulders back. "Let's go."

The presentation is much like the other ones, except that I have to make an effort to smirk at their tributes names. Really, though, Glimmer and Marvel? Those aren't names. Our audience is far fancier than any other so far, and also far more ridiculous looking, but they're the most dangerous, because they're well-fed, strong, and unhappy at the strange pair of victors this year.

After we finish talking, we prepare to walk back to the train, but one person erupts from the crowd. "What makes you so special?" the man demands, getting close to the stage. He's a little angry-looking, but not threatening. Still, though, Peacekeepers surround him their very presence menacing.

"What?" I say, turning to look back at him.

He's wearing a ridiculous orange suit, with a strange zig-zag pattern, but he's broad-shouldered and solid, and he's not happy. "Why did you think both of you deserved to win this year? You think you're better than us?"

"No," I say, bewildered.

Cato steps in. "We were prepared to die," he says. "The Gamemakers were the ones who decided to let us win. We appreciate your support." Briskly, he turns and begins to lead me back to the train, in a very victor-ly and impressive manner.

But suddenly there's a hand on my wrist, and I can feel the gold bracelet ripped from my wrist by the tight grip as I pull away. I turn back and see the orange-suited man holding onto me. He reaches for me, and I despise how helpless these high shoes make me. "Get away from me," I say fiercely.

"Only one victor," he says, deadly silent, and reaches for something in a pocket.

I feel a primal jolt of terror in my ribcage for a second, because I know he's going to hurt me. But of course, I forgot about Cato.

He's behind me a little, but before I can react, he's in front of me, between the man and me. I'm worried for Cato for a fraction of a second. Then he punches the guy in the face, follows it up with a blow to the gut and a stomp on his foot. This just infuriates the man, who lunges for Cato. But Cato trained for this; he uses the other man's weight against him, flips him onto the ground, and grinds his heel into his arm, audibly snapping the bone.

And although I like him stopping that guy from killing me, being protective of me and whatever, that's a little too far, even for me. "Cato," I say.

He kicks the guy in the side, breaking a few ribs, slams his head into the stage, leaving blood on the ground. Then he hauls the now-unconscious guy up with one hand and punches him in the face, then again and again, draws his fist back for a fourth time.

"Cato," I say louder.

His back is to me, but I can see him stop, holding the man up and his fist back. And then he drops the guy, who's nearly unrecognizable with his swollen face and blood-stained suit, turns back to me, and looks at me, deadpan.

We need to get out of here, so I reach my hand out to him, and after a few seconds, he takes it, his knuckles stained with red. He doesn't come right away when I tug on his hand, but then, he slowly begins to move towards me in small steps. And he continues to walk back to the train with me, but he lets of my hand and walks faster than I can keep up with.

He's practically running away from me by the time we're on the train. "Cato, stop," I say as soon as I'm sure no one from the district will overhear us.

He doesn't stop, but he slows down, stripping off his suit jacket impatiently, and his shirt and undershirt. Impatiently, he walks into his bedroom and I follow him, trying not to look the new scars from his whipping in my district, and when that fails, trying not to feel guilty about it. "What's your problem?" I demand.

"What's yours?" he says back. "Someone just tried to assassinate you. You should be worried about that."

That hasn't really sunk in yet for me, I guess because Cato took care of him before any weapon was out. But now's not really the time to realize I was almost killed. "You're freaking out because you went crazy on him, is that it?" I guess.

"Can you just leave me _alone_, for like half a second?" he snaps. "Maybe I don't want to tell you everything I'm thinking every second, didja ever think about that?"

I don't know how to answer without getting either really angry or really irrational, so I turn around and leave. Venia and Octavia are waiting in my bedroom for me and help me out of the gown, chattering all the while about how lucky I am to have such luxurious clothes made for me. I don't put on clothes after they leave; it feels like too much work. Instead, I get into bed, pulling the covers over me up to my nose, and stay there for a while.

Cato has every right to be sharp with me, I guess. I do have a habit of being nosy. I'm actually surprised it hasn't been a problem for him before. But that doesn't mean I feel any better about it. Also, now that I'm alone, I have plenty of time to remember the guy's cold eyes when he grabbed my wrist and I know that he would've killed me. If it wasn't for Cato, I might not be thinking right now.

Cold shivers start to ripple down my back, and I can't stop myself from shaking a little, but I don't cry. I'm okay. He's okay. We'll be fine. Even if he doesn't want to talk to me ever again, I can make it through this. I'll be okay. But for a second, I can't stop myself from thinking that maybe I can't.

I don't know how long I lie there. After a while, the blankets get warm and things become almost unbearably cozy. Maybe I'll stay here forever, have an Avox bring me food so I never have to move again. That sounds obscenely appealing right now.

"Katniss," Cato says from the doorway.

I do not respond, don't even look at him because that would require turning my head and moving the blanket. Too much work to do that.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I maintain my dignified silence.

He stops trying to get an answer out of me and instead comes into the room and sits on the very end of the bed, by my feet. "I was going to kill him," he says. "For touching you. And I guess that's a good thing because it kept you alive this time, but next time… I don't know if I'll stop." He laughs once, darkly. "I can't imagine what you must think of me. But that's who I am. I'll always go back to that, even if I don't want to." He pauses. "And I don't want you to know anything else, but just because you aren't going to like it."

"Well that's part of getting to know someone," I say, my voice muffled. "You learn the good and the bad and make your own decision."

"Yeah, well I know what your decision's going to be. And I guess I want to put that off for as long as possible."

"You don't know my decision," I cut him off.

He doesn't say anything for a very long time, and I go back to being comfy and silent for a while. If he's not going to talk to me, then fine. It's not going to change my opinion of him. I still think he's the person I'm ever going to feel this way about. I'll always think that. And when he does talk, I listen with that in the back of my mind.

"If you broke someone's bone in training, you'd get rewarded. Extra food or time with the trainers or something. And if yours got broken, they'd make you stay late, run more or do push-ups for hours, right after they put a cast on you. No painkillers. They'd speed up the healing, but you were still out for a week. And the whole week, everybody would be looking at you like you were weak, nothing. I must've broken hundreds of arms and legs. It's easy, I don't even have to… and then one time, it was my arm that snapped. Hurt like hell. And any other person would've thought about that, y'know? Like thought about how I'd been making other kids hurt like this for so long, and maybe I should stop it. I just got mad, though. Thought I didn't deserve it, that I was better than that. So I got pissed and next chance I got, I cracked the guy's skull. So maybe the past doesn't matter to you. But you can't just ignore shit like that."

Damn. That was one hell of a monologue. I don't know what to say about that, but I don't have to figure it out. "The camera equipment finally came," he says after a moment. "I'm gonna go shoot the video." He stands and walks out slowly but deliberately. I guess he said everything he needed to.

He's right, of course. I can't ignore who he was for the first eighteen years of his life, as much as I've been trying to. I need to know who he is, good and bad, just like I said myself, so I can decide if I still want to be with him.

I know for a fact that I will. But that doesn't change the fact that I need to know. Maybe he even needs me to know. Probably some combination of both. And now he's shooting that video to remind himself not to hate me. I should probably be there for that.

My intention is to just peek out at the set up first, then to come back here and put clothes on, so I just wrap one of the blankets around me, under my arms, and shuffle across my bedroom to the door and peer down the hall into the main room, where the camera is. He's already sitting down in front of it, and as I watch, he starts to talk.

"This video's because you've been brainwashed again. Before you turn it off, listen for a second. They're not making me say this. I'm not being threatened or tortured. This is the straight-up truth. I remember everything right now. I can prove it." He takes a deep breath.

"Clove. She was brutal, remember? Worse than me – us. Crazy. We'd both train at night when we were supposed to be at home. And that one night, when I'd been knocked out in training that day and I got home and Dad hammered on the side of my head for a while and I went back to train; she was there that night, too, and she saw me – us – fall down because our balance was off, but she didn't say anything. She sat next to me while I took forever to sit up and breathe and wait for my head to stop spinning so bad. And the next day, I fought her extra hard to prove I could still beat the shit out of her, and I could, even though she didn't want to admit it."

He stops again, for a longer time, biting his lip. "I remember all of that. And I'm here to tell you, or… me. Whatever. I'm telling you, don't believe a thing anybody says, except for the people from twelve. The trainers and our parents, they're all lying, alright, you know how to tell. They're ashamed of you, and they're trying to get you weak and out of the picture so they can take Katniss down, and you can't let that happen. Because Katniss Everdeen is the best thing that's ever happened to us. She saved your life. And you're in love with her."

I feel my knees go weak when he says that, and I suddenly need to hold onto the doorframe for support. He hasn't noticed me here yet, judging by how intently he's looking at the camera and how he continues.

"She's the best person you'll know. She's strong, talented, and nice and beautiful. They're going to try to screw with how you remember, but they aren't going to get everything. Like, how she stayed in your apartment with you; she was there when you got back from the Capitol. That woman with the blue hair. And when you came back, she was right there. You remember that? Her hair was still a little wet and she was wearing your shirt. She was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, and she was waiting for you in your bed.

"After everything you did that night, you didn't know if you deserved to have someone like that waiting for you. But she didn't even think twice about it. She didn't care that you were stupid and worthless and gross that night. She loves you. And there's not going to be another girl like that for you. I know you don't believe that she could ever genuinely care about anyone like you, but she does. I know you remember how you felt that night, when you saw she stayed. The trainers don't know about that night. They won't know to change that memory. Just think about that night. She's not faking anything. You have to believe that, because without her, you're not going to be able to do this."

He's not done, but that's all I can listen to. I feel like I'm going to explode, or overflow with all my emotions that are suddenly bubbling up. My epiphany from before, back home, comes back now, in full force, and I'm bombarded with feelings I didn't know existed.

This must be what love feels like. More than ever before, I can understand how my mother left everything she knew for my father, because I'm ready to do it now. Whatever he wants me to do, I'll do it right now, from how I'm feeling. And I've never been so scared of someone as I am right now, because I'm ready to give him everything, and the last person I gave everything to was Gale. Losing him temporarily wasn't bearable. Losing Cato might not be survivable. I can't have a weakness like that. But it's there, undeniably.

I love him. More than I've loved anyone before, in a way that wrenches at my heart like it might pull it out of my chest and straight into Cato's hands. It hurts so much that I'm crying, but not because I'm sad. The opposite, really. I'm happier that I've ever been before, because I know he's not playing me. He loves me back.

I don't know how long I sit there. Eventually, though, I realize I'm not alone. "Are you okay?" Cato says, kneeling next to me. He doesn't touch me, though, like he's scared to hurt me. Knowing what I do now, that's probably exactly what it is.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I assure him, and I reach out for him since he won't. I almost forget that I don't have clothes on, so I have to hold onto the sheet with my other hand, but I pull him close to me and put his arms around me for him. I love him, the impressive size of his arms, and the paradoxically gentle way he always touches me, even now.

"If you're mad at me, I understand," he starts to say.

I cut him off. "I'm in love with you. I don't care what happens, or how many times you forget. No matter what you've done. And I do know what I'm saying, and how much I don't know. I'm also saying I don't care."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I'm in love with you." And it actually feels good to say that. I don't even care that he isn't saying anything back, because he said it all already, even if he didn't know I was listening. "I'll never give up on you. Even if you forget."

"I'm not going to forget. Not completely. I can't."

"How do you know?" I ask, pulling back from him to look at his face.

"Because they don't know when I started loving you."

"When's that?" I ask, and I know I'm not prepared for the answer.

"I don't know. You crept up on me." I smile, but he's not done. "It started pretty far back, though. I know that. Like when you fell asleep on me the first time. Do you…" He's not sure if he should say this, but he does. "Do you want to go to dinner with me tonight? We'll be in my district by then."

When I was just starting to trust him, he was already falling for me. I'm blown away by this. And the thought of us going out in public for the first real time, showing each other off to the people of his district, is way more appealing than one might think. "Yeah, of course. Let's show them who their victors are," I say.

He smiles with just an echo of the savagery I saw from him earlier. "Let's do it." Then he hesitates for a second, eyes flicking down and back up. "Are you going to put clothes on?"

I blush. "Um, yeah. Hold on. One second. If you'd just…"

I don't have to finish that sentence. He leaves, throwing a final look at me over his shoulder. I put on some sweat pants, a casual shirt, because we still have the presentation in district 2 to speak at, which will be longer because it's one of the victorious districts. I'll have another dress put on me before we go to dinner, so I don't have to worry about looking good, which I don't really anyways. But that might actually be a thing now. I might worry about looking good for him.

Not now, though. I'm not that far gone yet. Plus, when I walk out to where he is on the couch, he looks at me like I'm something amazing, even though I don't look good except for my hair, makeup dripping down my face. How can I _not_ love him?

Cinna and the others spend about three hours on my new dress. My hair is done in a thousand small braids that turn into bigger ones, like the hairstyle my mother did for me but more ornate, and with threads of copper winding through and around the braids.

The earrings, necklace, and bracelets on me are better than any I've worn before. They fit on me almost like they're growing out of me; the earrings wrapped around my earlobes, the necklace curves over my neck and collarbones, and around them, Cinna hand-lays copper leaf, so you can barely tell where the jewelry ends and my skin begins.

My dress is green, with cutout spots on my sides and a texture somewhere between an oak leaf and silk. Then there's hundreds of tiny olive pieces that Cinna also hand lays over the neckline and skin at my sides, so the dress looks like it's a natural part of me as well. When they're finished, I look like some sort of nature warrior princess. Cinna has outdone himself again.

"I love it," I say breathlessly, spinning and looking at the way the dress moves, not like fabric at all. "This is spectacular."

Cinna smiles. "You gave me a beautiful starting point."

Cato can't stop looking at me when they finish with him and let him see me. He looks pretty damn attractive himself, in a dull silver suit, copper cufflinks, and an olive tie. You can definitely tell he trained for this; it paid off.

"Alright, lovebirds, here's the deal," Haymitch says, looking at the two of us, but his instructions are pretty obviously for my benefit. "There's performances and demonstrations arranged for you, a feast in your honor that you don't have to eat much of. You'll be seated by each other. There probably will be whispering. His family will be there. Be regal. If you have a chance to shoot, do it. Don't smile a lot. Got all that?"

"Yeah. Where will you be?"

"On the train. They don't want an old drunk like me contaminating their perfect specimens of humans," he says sarcastically. "So stick together."

"What if someone tries to kill her again?" Cato asks.

"They won't." Haymitch shakes his head. "Too rebellious. You'll be safe. You're on display the moment you step outside. Be cute. Go. Be free, kids. Rock this." And he all but shoves us out onto the train platform.

Immediately, I lock my arm around his. "Okay," I say, straightening up. "Let's do this."

Cato's nervous, I can tell from how flat his expression is, but he nods and we go. He's remarkably talented at faking confidence. The streets are lined with citizens of 2, lined up and dressed their best to see their victors. "Ignore them," Cato says. "They're beneath us."

But I can't do that, because there's adorable kids around here that are looking at me like I'm a role model, which, to them, I guess I am. So I smile back at them and try not to think I don't deserve to be here.

The ceremony passes without much distinction to me; it's just like the other ones, except longer, and we sit down for half the time. Cato's parents are seated next to him during the feast, on his other side. At one point, his mother grabs his shoulder with her talon-like fingernails and starts to say something, but I jump in and demand Cato's attention by pulling him close and kissing him, earning a few cheers from the crowd.

I keep doing that, getting between him and his parents whenever they try to do something other than just smiling and nodding, but I can't do anything when his father introduces him and digs his fingers into Cato's shoulder while I'm sitting down. I watch Cato's shoulder twitch, and I can't imagine how much it has to hurt for him to react at all.

Then I'm introduced and I give my speech and we smile and nod and whatever, but once we're sitting back down and the mayor of the district is talking, I lean over and kiss him on the cheek gently and whisper into his ear, "It'll be okay, I love you."

He nods, and rolls his shoulder uncomfortably, then takes my hand and squeezes it.

We fake our way through the rest of everything and head back to the train to change for dinner. Haymitch is waiting for us. "I noticed your lovely mentors were conspicuously absent," he says to Cato.

"Yep. No surprise."

"Mmm. Nice interference, Katniss, you were like a wall. Big sister instincts won again."

"Thanks," I say over my shoulder, walking away to get changed. I leave on my shoes and the top part of my dress, but detach the skirt with a hidden zipper around my hips that Cinna showed me earlier. I pull on some black tight pants, slide on my dad's leather jacket, and walk back out to where Cato's waiting for me. "Dinner," I say, taking his hand.

"Let's go."

He leads me through the now-crowded streets to a rich part of town, with stores and little booths lining the streets. We go to the restaurant that looks the most luxurious, full of snooty-looking people in ridiculous clothes that almost make my outfit look poor. Cato whispers to the man at the front, and I'm pretty sure he slips him some money, and we get a table away from everyone else.

There's a candle on the small table, a big window, a single flower in a vase, and fancy silverware. It's terribly romantic, and I'm horrified to find out that I don't mind. We sit down, and when the waiter comes over, he doesn't act like there's anything out of the ordinary about us. I have no idea what to order, but Cato chooses something for me.

"Soooo what, do we talk now?" I ask.

"Usually that's how it goes," he smiles with his eyes.

"Oh, so you've been on a lot of these?"

"A few. Before the games, I knew a lot of girls."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But now I'm taken."

I'm sure he doesn't mean to have this effect on me, of making me fall more in love with him with every word, but that's exactly what's happening. "That hasn't stopped most people," I point out, because there's still a large part of me that won't let me have such blatantly adorable moments.

"Well, it's stopping me."

"What, forever? You gonna propose to me?" I say sarcastically.

I should've known better. "Maybe," he says, face impassive. I blush, of course, and can't answer, because I haven't even thought about what I'd do if he asked.

So I change the subject uncomfortably, saying the first thing that comes to mind. "So how are Silas and Sophia?"

Even as I say it, I know it's a bad question, even without seeing his face darken and his hand clench into a fist. "Fine, now," he says, though. "They're both all healed from… from what I did to them. Won't come anywhere near me now, though."

"You mind us stopping by? I'd like to see them before we leave for home tonight."

"No, that's fine I'm sure my parents would love to be seen with you in the house, anyways." He fiddles with a fork for a moment. "There isn't… there isn't any way we could take them with us to your home, is there."

I narrow my eyes at him curiously. "Why would you want to do that?"

"It kind of seems like a toxic place to be. And they should at least have a chance to be normal, I think."

While it's majorly important that he realized these are things – that kids should have childhoods and the treatment of kids in district 2 is wrong – it's also bad. "Are they allowed to go?" I have to point out. "And wouldn't taking them make them targets for other tributes or future games? I don't think Sophia would want to, even."

"Oh."

"But I'd love to take them, if it was safe for them," I add, because I don't just want to destroy his budding nice idea. "It just doesn't seem like the best idea right now."

"Yeah," he says. "That makes sense." But he's not happy about it, and he won't just accept it. For a long moment, he looks out the window. "They're kind of targets anyways," he says. "Just by being related to me."

"Well. It's not my call. I'll say yes if you ask. But your parents have to agree to it. I'm not going to be the first victor accused of kidnapping," I say with half a smile.

He makes a face at me, a goofy one that I'm shocked he lets himself show in public. "Whatever. I thought you were brave."

"I will not be taunted into a felony," I whisper across the table right as the waiter comes back with our food. Immediately, I shut up and try not to look like a criminal.

They place dishes in front of us; white bowls and plates filled with brightly-colored food. I've got some kind of soup, full of vibrant vegetables, and a mound of what seems to be potatoes, except they're brightly colored like no potatoes I've ever seen before. Cato's hacking at a large piece of meat, and he's got something close to rice but not quite.

"Promise me this is good," I say before picking up a fork.

"It's good," he says, smiling at me.

I throw him a suspicious look, but I dig into the potatoes. They are good, of course. He wouldn't lie. But they taste suspiciously unhealthy. "What, no option that's gross and good for me?" I say as soon as the potatoes stop sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

"Not here," he says, after he's done being momentarily confused by me. "What's wrong with it being good for you?"

"Life's too short to eat food that's good for you."

He frowns, trying not to smile. "Okay." We both eat quietly, because there are few things that I'd rather do than eat, and not much will get between me and my food. Even attractive and strong boys I love who love me.

"So do we do things differently? Now that… that we've realized things," he says awkwardly after a while, looking up at me in a way that's pretending to be casual.

"Like do what differently?" I say.

"I don't know."

"Well, how do you think we're supposed to act?"

"I don't know. Do I look like I've done this before?"

"Do I?"

"So neither of us have any idea how to do this."

"I think that's a fair assessment," I say, devouring some of the surprisingly delicious stew. "So what should we do?"

"I don't know."

"What do you feel like doing?"

He considers. "Finishing this steak and going to my parents' house?"

"I mean about us. Although sure, that's good, too."

"Oh." We eat for a while longer. "Do you want something from me?" he asks, worried.

"No, you're… you're fine the way you are."

"Okay. But if you change your mind-"

"I'll let you know," I assure him. "Don't worry about it."

That gets us through the end of the meal. He pays, absolutely refusing to let me, and then we walk out, hand in hand. He pulls me closer on the walk to his parents, putting his arm around my waist, and I like it. "So are we going to invite them with us?" I ask.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm gonna see how Mom and Dad are first."

"Probably a good decision," I say. Judging from how cruel and mean they are, any decision made should depend on them if we're going to avoid crime and/or conflict. "Shouldn't we not hold hands?" I ask as we're ride up the elevator to his parents' apartment.

"I don't care anymore," he says. "They need to just deal with it."

I raise my eyebrows. "Impressive. If you're sure."

The doors open.


	26. Chapter 25

**A/N: Hey, guys, I have a lot to say this time, but I'll leave most of it till the end. The one important thing that can't wait is this: Katniss isn't a completely truthful narrator. Whatever she's saying is what she's thinking, but it's not necessarily what's true. So if you're reading something and you get all like "HEY. THAT'S NOT TRUE." take a second to consider if Katniss thinks it's true at that moment.**

**If she doesn't, then I've made a huge mistake. Let me know and I'll fix it. **

His family is all around an ornate table, eating dinner. None of them look up when we first walk in, because his mom and dad are busy fighting very loudly, over money, it seems. It's easy to pick up on what's going on with just a little effort; somehow, Cato's winnings are already wearing out and they're debating about what to do, go back to work or borrow some money until next year. The one thing that doesn't seem to be on the table is backing off on the extravagant lifestyle, which is probably the most viable option.

Throughout the argument, Silas and Sophia are silently eating, not looking up from their plates. They look scared. Eventually, Cato clears his throat. "Dad."

"Does it look like we're done talking?"

"Maybe if you'd won how you were supposed to, we wouldn't be having this discussion," his mother chimes in. It doesn't seem smart to point out his victor's salary is exactly what it would've been if he won alone. "Instead, we have to live like paupers," she continues.

"Can I talk to the kids for a sec?" Cato says, ignoring the other part of what she said.

She kind of shrugs, waves him off, and so Cato says, "Hey. Kids. C'mon." They follow us to another room, a living room, I think, with more couches than I've ever seen in one place. It's insane. Cato sits down on one. I sit next to him, and the kids gingerly take seats on one across from us.

"Are we in trouble?" Silas asks. Considering what Cato did to them, I could understand why he'd be scared, but he doesn't sound anything but defiant. Guess that runs in the family.

It's a second before Cato can answer. "No. You're not. No. Why weren't you at the feast?"

"Mom said we didn't deserve to go," Sophia says, looking up at us for the first time, and I can see she's got a broken nose, two black eyes from it, making her blue eyes stand out more than ever in her face.

"What happened to your face?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "Training."

Silas looks at me and shakes his head just a little, and I see that he's got a huge scrape diagonally over his face, across his eyebrow, nose, then cheek. "And you?" I say to him.

"Accident."

In theory, I realize that parents hitting their kids is more common here. I can accept that. Fine. Cultural differences or whatever. But looking at these two, I'm anything but okay with it. I want to hug them, but I don't think they'd ever let me.

"What do you want from us?" Sophia asks sharply, crossing her arms.

"You guys ever wanted to travel?" I say, just on impulse, because anything I wanted to tell them before is outweighed by their injuries and Cato's suggestion of them coming with us. "Like to another district or something. My district?" I say hesitantly.

"Sure," Silas says instantly.

"That's not allowed," Sophia frowns. "But why?"

"Because we thought you might want to come with us. Meet some of the people in district twelve, have fun at the celebration," Cato shrugs. "But if you're scared, we don't have to do it."

Brilliant big-brother manipulation. Sophia straightens up defiantly and says, "I'm not scared. I just don't want to hurt my chances of getting into the games."

"I'll go," Silas says. "If Mom and Dad will let me."

Sophia shoves him and Silas doesn't resist. "What, do you not want to be a tribute?" she asks him sharply. "They're going to kick you out if you get too close to the pathetic-" She breaks off, looking at me. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"It's fine." I'm actually kind of amused by her undisguised disgust for my district. It's a nice change from the frigid civility of everyone else around here. And it's also an interesting look at how Cato might've been before the games, or after them without me. "So is that a no from you?" I say slyly, because I'm a big sister and I know how this works.

"No. I'll go," she says, defiant. Only special people get to travel to other districts, and she can't resist that allure. "But only if you get Mom and Dad to agree to it."

Cato looks at me for a long moment. "You really want to do this?"

"Sure. Won't hurt anything." I shrug.

He looks at his siblings sternly. "If you're coming then there's rules," he says. "Don't talk to any reporters unless I say you can, and don't tell them anything except what I say you can. Don't make fun of anyone in twelve. Got it?"

They both nod hastily, and maybe it's just me, but they seem more scared of him than before. Probably some combination of truth and my perception.

"Okay. Go pack a bag," he says, and they disappear through a doorway towards the back of the apartment, towards the bedrooms.

"How are you going to convince your parents?" I ask him

"Haven't thought that far."

I raise my eyebrows. "Okay then. Good luck. I'll be right there with you." I almost don't say anything else, but then I decide I really do want to know. "Is this because you feel guilty?"

He doesn't ask what about. "Not completely." He stands up, offers me his hand, and I get up too. "Don't say anything to them. They'll just get pissed and say no."

"Gotcha."

We walk back into the dining room, where his parents are eating in a very strained silence, glaring at each other across the table laden with more food than most people in my district have in a year.

"I want to take the kids with me on the tour," Cato says, holding more tightly to my hand.

"Absolutely not. Some of that weakness will… rub off on them," his mother says with a sneer. "Besides, it'll hurt their chances of getting in the games; they'll be targets."

"They don't need to get in the games," Cato says firmly. "I won. They don't have to."

"What, you think _this_ is enough?" she snorts. "You think we don't need someone to erase the shame you've brought on our family?"

Cato doesn't try to argue that point. "How many victors do you want from us?"

That sets both of them off; his father starts yelling about respect, and his mom scoffs at the idea that Cato's win might ever be enough for them. Just listening to them, I step back, hold myself motionless in instinctual fear. They're ruthless. It explains a lot of how he is; his stillness, his carefulness with me, and his shame at everything he was before. Anybody would feel like shit about themselves if they grew up with them.

Cato doesn't argue with them, not even a word to try to stop them. He lets them talk themselves out, then finally says loudly, "Just for a week. It'll…" He glances at me apologetically, just out of the corner of his eye. "It'll give them an advantage if they get to see their competition early."

Because the only way to convince them to let their kids have fun is to say it'll make them better killers. I really don't like the way things work here, but I bite the inside of my cheek and stay silent while his parents and him argue with each other more.

Finally, they agree to one week. When they say that, Cato doesn't bother with any more conversation with them; he leaves midsentence and walks away, coming back shortly with the kids in tow, both of them holding small-ish duffle bags. "See you in a week," he mutters over his shoulder at his parents, and we all get into the elevator.

"You've done everything right," I say quietly to him. "Just… everything." After that little display of his family, I can't help but want to reaffirm him, make him feel better.

Cato nods once, leans down and hugs me tightly, quickly. "Thanks," he mutters into my hair, and straightens back up again.

His siblings are both looking at the two of us like we're crazy, very uncomfortable. I guess they're not used to people supporting each other. They keep their distance from both of us at first, but soon, Silas takes my hand again, like last time we walked together. He's quiet and calm, but his hand around mine is tight, and he keeps me between him and Cato. And Sophia doesn't come anywhere near the rest of us.

"Let me explain this to Haymitch,' I say preemptively when we're near the train station. "I'll get him okay with this."

"Sure," Cato says. "Since I'm still not sure if he likes me or not."

"He likes you," I say, but I'm not convincing at all; all three siblings give me the exact same skeptical look. "Okay, fine, maybe he doesn't like you, but he doesn't dislike you."

"That's not… okay," Cato smiles a bit and doesn't argue.

I lead the way into the train car. Haymitch is sprawled in a chair, holding a bottle that's resting on his stomach, and watching footage of the ceremony we were just in. "Hey, sweetheart, I've been looking at what happened more, and I've decided we've gotta play up this protective thing. He jumped on that guy's _ass_ for you, and that-" He stops when he sees the two little kids with us. "The hell are they doing here?"

"They're coming back to district twelve with us," I begin, and immediately, he shakes his head. "Haymitch, just listen to me for a second," I say, attempting to be convincing, but he's not buying it.

"We can't be carting around careers with us, Katniss. Even baby ones," he says.

"I'm not a baby," Sophia mutters.

"Even young ones, then," he corrects himself, giving her an exasperated glare that I recognize too well.

"It's just for a week, and we'll keep an eye on them," I say.

Haymitch considers. "Just a week?"

"One week."

"No funny business?"

"None," I promise, desperately hoping that's not going to be wrong.

"Okay," he agrees abruptly. "Fine."

"Really?" That was easy.

"Sure. It's not like I have any actual power over you two anymore," he says nonchalantly.

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. You're victors, too. I doubt you even really have to listen to your parents, if you wanted to push the issue."

I glare at Haymitch. "And why didn't you tell us that before why?"

He shrugs. "It was fun to watch you squirm. You're really not very convincing. Why didn't you stop her?" he asks Cato.

"She wanted to convince you," Cato shrugs. "Alright, this is Silas and Sophia. Got it?"

"Got it. Only one rule here. Stay away from my drinks." He takes another swig. "Take them away, get their stuff unpacked or whatever."

"Why did we have to pack, anyways?" Sophia says. "We can just get clothes there."

"No, you can't. We don't have closets like that in twelve," I say.

Haymitch laughs. "This'll be fun," he says, then leaves the train car, shuffling unsteadily into his own quarters with his bottle of alcohol.

"I'm gonna change," I say.

"You two, c'mon," Cato says, and he reaches out for Silas, who cringes into me, then realizes what he's doing and stands straight, letting go of my hand and following Cato obediently.

"What are we doing?" Silas asks, trying to sound steady.

"We'll change clothes," Cato says, looking over at me with guilt plainly written on his face.

I don't know how to tell him it's going to be okay, so I escape to my bedroom and put on clothes that don't require application with glue. I wipe off my makeup, pull out the pins in my hair so it falls down around my shoulders. The copper and green fabric both are hard to get off, so I throw on just a tank-top because it's easier to get clean off my sides and chest when I don't have to worry about anyone walking in on me shirtless.

I spend about five minutes peeling off fabric and chips of copper. Then there's a knock on the door. "Come in," I say, not moving from the mirror. Sophia walks in, looking at me suspiciously. "Need something?"

"Cato was just worried about you. Wanted me to check. What's on your neck?" she asks curiously, coming closer up behind me.

"Cinna thought of this to make it look like the dress was growing out of me or something. But it's hell to get off," I say, scraping at my collarbone.

"You're supposed to get it wet first."

I look at her in the mirror. "How do you know that?"

She shrugs. "They use that glue a lot around here."

"Want to help me?" I suggest, because I want to get a little closer to her. It only seems appropriate since I'm in love with her brother.

Sophia nods shyly, and she's brave enough to smile at me for a second. She takes a washcloth and soaks it, drapes it over the side of my neck for a moment, then scrubs it off. The copper leaf comes away easily.

She repeats that strategy several times around my neck, getting all the copper, then gets the fabric down near the top of my tank top. I put my head down so she can clean off the back of my neck, then lift up my shirt so she can help with my sides. Finally, I'm mostly normal looking, not like a weird radiant figure.

"Thanks for the help," I say. "That would've taken me forever."

She nods, pressing her lips together tightly so she doesn't smile, and somehow, her trying not to like me is adorable. "Is the tour fun?" she asks.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool. I don't know if it was worth being in the games, though."

That part doesn't make sense to her, I can tell, but she doesn't say anything. We go out into the main room, where Cato's on the couch and Silas is looking out the window, far from him. I see him glance at his brother for a second, worried and guilty, and then he looks up at me. "You're okay?" he checks, slightly paranoid.

"Yeah, just had a lot of makeup crap to get off." I sit next to him folding my legs underneath me so I can lean into him. He puts his arm over me, and I curl my fingers around his. "What do you kids want to do?" I ask them, because they're standing around looking nervous.

"Watch the games," Sophia says. She tries to sound calm, but it's really a question.

Cato turns on the TV, throws his sister the remote without a word to her. I'd almost be worried that it'll hit her in the head, but Sophia catches it, barely looking up, and changes channels until she finds review footage of our games, video of me running to a tree and climbing up into it.

"C'mere," I say to Silas, because he's watching from behind us, quiet and still. "Come on, sit down." It takes him forever to walk around the couch to me, and then he hesitates before he sits next to me, and he keeps some space between the two of us. He's trying not to be scared of me, I can see it in how he's motionless, like Cato gets. Same with Sophia on the other side of Cato, who stays well out of reach.

I'm not going to push it. The worst thing to do to someone who's convinced you're going to hurt them is to force them close to you. After several minutes, though, he relaxes a little bit. The train starts moving, with a small initial jolt that smooths out quickly, and he falls into me for a second. Immediately, he stiffens, and tries to sit up, but I let go of Cato's hand to put my arm around him.

"It's okay, calm down," I say, helping him sit back up, but after a moment, he voluntarily leans back into my shoulder, scooting closer to me. He stays there as we watch what happened on the games, Cato climbing up the tree to get to me and falling.

Sophia snorts derisively at that, and I look over at her in time to catch her looking at Cato in a scared way. But Cato doesn't get pissed at her for mocking him, even though I know he definitely would've before. Instead, he slowly puts his arm around her in a big brotherly way. The next time I look at them, she's in his lap, his arm safely around her waist.

I get up to get food, ask them if they want something. There's a really long pause before any answers; I look back at them to see what the deal is. The kids are baffled. "Um, no," Sophia says, looking very confused.

"No," Silas says, following her lead.

I don't push the issue, but I do privately connect a few more dots. They're not used to eating a lot. There's a reason why they're so thin. That doesn't stop me from enjoying my stew, though; I take it back to the couch, holding it away from me while Cato and Silas get re-situated around me, then continue stuffing my mouth.

The train ride back to my district is long; it's going to take most of the night, so none of us are in a hurry to get to bed. It's barely dark when I notice Silas is asleep on me, though, and when I look over to Sophia again, I see she's out, too. "You go to sleep early in 2?" I ask Cato quietly.

"No. They're probably really tired. The trainers have been hard on them because of me. Haven't gotten a lot of sleep in the past few weeks."

He feels terrible about it. "It's not your fault. You weren't yourself," I tell him.

"Yeah, well… at least they feel safe enough to sleep now," he says.

"What do you mean by that?"

"They're taught not to sleep around people they don't trust. Around most people in general, actually. It's built in. So I guess they forgive me a little."

"Wait, was that built into you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

I can't tell him what I'm really thinking, how taken aback I am that he's been overriding his programming every time he gets in bed with me and he never let on. So I say, "No reason. Think they'll enjoy my district?"

It's a very obvious subject change, but he goes with it. "Silas will. He loves you. He'll do whatever you do. And Sophia will be fine. She likes the bragging rights, at least."

I nod. "So why'd you really want them to come? It's not for the tourism."

"Maybe if they spend some time with your… people, they'll turn out… better. Less crazy."

"You did okay."

He shrugs, looks down. "You think so. But that's…" He shrugs again.

"You're a good person," I say insistently. "Maybe you weren't before, but you are now."

"Yeah, well I don't think the odds of them finding someone like you on their own, like I did, are really in their favor," he says, and I have to admit that he's got a point.

"They'll be okay. You're looking out for them."

"For how much longer, though. Next time I forget, I'm going to do exactly the same thing. And there's no chance that they'll just not do it or something, because they're going to try again. Snow won't let us just stay together."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too inspiring. And although he can probably handle us apart, he definitely can't if we're together. Cuz we do things like this." He looks down at his sister in his arms.

"Oh."

After a moment of silence, he hands me something. "Here." It's the chain from around his neck with his dog tags and key on it, the one he gave to me when he left before. Except this time, there's something else on it, a black stick the size of my thumb. "It's the video. In case I forget. It'll fit into anything with a screen."

"Thanks." I start to unclasp the chain, so I can slip off the video thing, but he stops me.

"No, just take the whole thing," he says.

I hesitate for half a second, because this feels like a commitment; it's not just a necklace. It's not just me choosing to put it on or put it in my pocket. And if I put it on, it'll mean more than just a fashion choice. My commitment to him is determined by this, even if he doesn't think about it like that.

I put it on, lean up and kiss him on the cheek. "I hope you don't need this."

"Yeah." He doesn't say anything more than that, and I don't want to fight about something that's out of both of our control, so I don't say anything either.

Since the kids are asleep, we change the channel, changing to coverage of us now. The more we know about what people think, the better chance we'll have of handling Snow. I get distracted, though, because Silas is the cutest thing ever when he sleeps.

He slips down into my lap. I lift his head up to put a pillow under it, and he jerks awake when I touch his shoulder. "Hey, hey, it's just me," I say softly, drawing back, because I don't want to scare him.

"Oh," he says, and relaxes again, laying his head down on the pillow. Tentatively, I put my hand on the side of his head, stroke his hair. It's longer and softer than Cato's, and he gives in more readily to me taking care of him, but I guess all of that can be attributed to his age. He's just a kid – a tough deadly kid, but a kid.

He's asleep again within a minute, curled up on his side. Once I'm sure he won't hear, I ask Cato, "Did I do something that woke him up?"

"Nothing specific."

"Then why'd he look so scared?"

He clenches his jaw. "I don't know."

"That's not true."

"You don't want to know what's true."

"Tell me." Now my curiosity's piqued, and the cold feeling in the bottom of my stomach tells me it's bad. Very bad. I need to know.

"The scrape on his arm isn't it," he mutters reluctantly. "Okay?"

The feeling in my gut gets stronger, stops my heart for a second. "No," I say accidentally.

"Yeah." Cato reaches out for Silas, nudges his head so he half-wakes up. "Take off your jacket," he says roughly.

Silas doesn't argue; he just obeys, then curls into me again, putting his hand under the pillow and holding onto my leg. He's closer to me than before and cringing away like he expects someone to hurt him. And I put my arm around him gently, to protect him, but my hand's shaking now, because I can see both of his thin arms, the dark bruises on them.

There's five marks on his upper arm in a clear pattern, from a big hand grabbing him tightly, more scrapes on the underside of his arms like the one on his face, and tiny scabs that look similar to the ones on Cato's arms.

Somehow, it's more terrible to see these things on him, because he's younger. I have to clear my throat a couple times before I can talk. "What does this have to do with me waking him up?"

"His shoulder is hurt. You probably accidentally touched it," he says shortly, and I hate myself for not realizing that myself and making him say that.

"Your mom did this to him?"

"And Dad. And probably some of it happened during training."

"Damn."

"Most of the kids from home look like this. Sophia does, too."

"That doesn't make it okay." I continue to pet Silas' hair. "Part of me wants to kidnap them, but I know that isn't a good idea. And that doesn't help the rest of them," I say, half to myself. Cato doesn't say anything, but his arm around me gets tighter.

Sophia and Silas both continue to sleep for several more hours. Sophia wakes up when Cato shifts her in his arms, and even she can't fake wanting to stay awake; she goes back to sleep leaning against her brother, somehow still looking vigilant with her eyes shut. Silas isn't quite as brainwashed as her; he sleeps heavily, completely unconscious.

His trust in me is flattering, really, and I discover that he evokes the same feelings in me that Prim does; protectiveness, affection, love. And that's weird, because I've known dozens of kids in that age range that didn't make me feel like this. There's something special about him, I guess.

"Is he hurt badly?" I ask after a while.

"I don't know. Do you want to check?"

"What do you mean?"

"Silas," he says sharply. Sophia shifts in her sleep, but Silas wakes up right away, standing up and taking several steps back from the couch, trying to keep his eyes open. His shoulders are hunched, he's standing in a vaguely military position, scared out of his mind.

I'm seriously concerned that about this, but Cato doesn't seem to be. "Inspection," he says, and Silas takes off his shirt and pants, dropping them on the floor and standing there in his underwear, still half-asleep.

"Why'd-"

Cato cuts me off. "You can check now," he says. And although I do think he did this partly to give me what I wanted, because he does that a lot, I also think he's trying to show off in a strange, morbid way. Almost like maybe he wants me to see how sick it gets, to see exactly how much I mean what I'm saying about forgiving him, giving him slack.

I'm not going to just leave Silas there, so I say, "Honey, c'mere," I reach out for him and pretend not to notice how he flinches away from me, unsure who I am or what I want. It's not hard to pretend, anyways, because he's got dark bruises all over his entire body that make me want to kill whoever did this to him. "C'mon, Silas," I say again, and I take him by the hand, pull him closer.

I turn him around to look at his back, where I touched him when he woke up. No wonder he flinched – somebody whipped him, hard enough to leave scars like the ones on Cato's back when they heal. And this happened recently, they're scabbed and angry looking, horizontal fiery stripes that descend his back and spill over onto his thighs. And the bruises, all the bruises over his delicate, pale skin. I hate it.

"You can… put your clothes on," I say awkwardly, and he obeys without a word. "I'm sorry, you can go back to sleep," I say, looking at him and hoping he can tell I'd never hurt him.

Slowly, he comes back towards me, gets on the couch and looks at me with wide, solemn eyes. "Who did that to you?" I say to him.

Cato is very definitely not looking at either of us, apparently caught up in the television now. Silas glances at him before answering. "I'm okay."

"That wasn't the question."

"The trainers. A couple of them are Peacekeepers."

"Why?"

"I wasn't strong enough."

That breaks my heart. "Don't listen to them," I say, swallowing hard. "You're perfect."

Silas just looks at me. He doesn't say a word, but when I put my arm out to him, the pillow back in my lap, he comes straight to me and hugs me. Eventually, he makes his way to my lap, moving the pillow over my chest, and curls into it, arms and legs wrapped around me like a baby.

I fold my hands over his back securely. I'd be worried about hurting him, but Cato pulls a soft blanket off the back of the couch and puts it between my arms and his brother's back. "I'm glad you won," Silas says, his voice muffled.

"Thank you," I say, and hold him tightly until his breathing evens out again and he's asleep again. I'm more conscious of my own breathing rhythm, with the weight of him on my chest, and I try to make it slow and steady, because the kid is strangely in tune with me.

I catch Cato looking at me and his brother together. I see his face tighten in a kind of sadness, or something like that, and I don't understand, so I say, "What was that?"

"Nobody at home knows what to do with him. I don't. But you do, just… instantly," he says, slightly amused. "You're awesome."

"Stop." I make a face. "He's a kid. I'm just treating him like one."

But he shakes his head. "No, that's not it. He doesn't let anyone touch him at home. He barely talks."

"Maybe that's because talking gets him beaten. Not that I'm blaming you," I add, because it'd be just like him to assume I think this is his fault.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should."

"Stop," I repeat, because he shouldn't beat himself up like this. "This isn't about you."

"What, because what I did before doesn't count?" He sounds sarcastic. "Yeah. Right."

"No, because you the way you are isn't the same as you the way you were."

"Right. That makes sense."

"Cato, please. Stop it. I love you. They love you. Everything's going to be okay. At least for the next week," I say. Pointless optimism doesn't go far with him.

"Sure," he sighs. "Come here." I turn to look at him and he lightly kisses me. "I like you."

"I'm kinda fond of you, too," I smile.

Eventually, both of us get sleepy, too. I don't want to let go of Silas and Cato won't let go of Sophia, so we take pillows and blankets from our beds out onto the floor. The two of us end up on our sides with the kids in between us.

I put Silas against my stomach, my arm over him, like Cato did to me before, and Cato holds his sister similarly. Our hands find each other in the middle. I lift my head up for a second to catch his eye over the two kids. We share a smile, and then we both fall asleep.

As usual, I wake up with a nightmare, but not screaming, and somehow, holding Silas against me is better than all the comforting Cato's done. I'm able to hold tighter to Cato's hand, squeeze closer to Silas, and go back to sleep. And the best night of sleep I've had turns out to be on the floor, without fancy sheets or down mattresses.

I wake up completely a few hours later. Instinctively, I close my hand and realize there's no hand in mine, just air. Silas is still next to me, sleeping like a baby, but Sophia's gone, so I guess the two of them are awake. I move my hand up to his hair, smooth it down again before he wakes up.

"Hey, Katniss," Cato says, walking up behind me and standing over me. "We're in twelve."

"Oh." I sigh. "I don't want to get up, though."

"Okay." He sits down next to me, behind me, and after a second, he touches my hair. I like it, I have to admit, so I don't say anything when he tugs my hair free of its braid and unbraids it, then combs his fingers through the ends.

"What are you doing?" I ask curiously, not moving.

"I don't know anybody with hair like yours," he says, then adds, "Well. Maybe Clove. But she'd never let me do this. And I'd never want to."

I never know what to do when he starts talking about Clove, so I don't say anything about it. "Do you know you're being sweet right now?"

"Sorta." He keeps combing through my hair with his fingers, tugging gently at my scalp, and it feels good, like when Mom braids my hair.

"Where's Sophia?" I ask.

"Eating. Getting dressed. What you should be doing."

"Alright!" I sit up, flipping my hair over my shoulder and rubbing my knuckles in my eyes. "How long have you been up?"

"A couple hours. No nightmares?"

"A few. I was fine."

Next to me, Silas wakes up, eyes flying to me, and then he calms down. "Are we there?" he asks the two of us.

"Yep," Cato says. "Go get dressed for the celebration. And eat something. Please."

Both Silas and I look at him, slightly confused, because that's not something Cato says. "Okay," Silas says hesitantly, and he gets up and walks away.

"So is it just you? Or do they do whatever anybody says," I whisper to Cato.

"Authority figures from the district in general. Probably you, too, if you tried it." We both know I never will, but we don't say that.

Haymitch walks into the car. "Ooooh, sleepover," he says with faked enthusiasm. "Gross. While the kids were here?"

"Haymitch, stop." I glare. "What do you want?"

"Cinna's coming in soon. This is your warning. Hey," he says cheerfully, waving to the two kids who have appeared in Cato's doorway, looking at him suspiciously. "You're about to be dressed. Might want to get off the floor," he says to me, and then leaves.

Cato stands up and pulls me up off the floor, just before Cinna walks in. "What'll I be wearing today?" I ask him without preface.

"Nothing too ornate," Cinna says with a smile. "These people already love you. And we don't want to make them think you're being changed."

He shows us our outfits; they look almost like traditional clothes from twelve. Cato's in a crisp, white dress shirt and grey pants – no jeweled cufflinks or detailed patterns. And my dress is eerily similar to the blue dress I wore to my reaping, just made from softer, more vibrant fabric and cut to fit me exactly.

My team has barely any work to do; Flavius braids my hair exactly the way my mother did it, the other two brush a little basic makeup over my face, and we're done. Cato doesn't have to have anything done at all, so when I'm done, we're ready to go out.

"Follow us with the rest of everybody else," Cato tells his siblings. "They'll seat you with friends. Be nice to everyone. And stay by Haymitch until then, alright?"

Both kids nod seriously. Venia threw a little concealer on the darkest of their bruises and cuts, so they look significantly less battered than before. Before we go outside, I look down at Silas. "You're gonna like it here," I say.

He doesn't say anything positive or negative, and that makes sense, I guess, because he's terrified of being hurt. I reach out to him, encircle his head with my arm and draw him close against my side. "I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you," I say quietly, so no one else can hear it. "Anything happens that you're uncomfortable with, you come find me, okay?"

"Okay," he says. I let him go, but he stays close beside me.

"Can somebody take their duffle bags?" Cato says.

Haymitch gives him a thumbs up. "Sure, kid. Go."

So we go. The kids follow us out the door, Sophia looking disgusted at Cato's and my interlocked hands and Silas sticking close to me like a shadow. There are people waiting for us, my family and Gale, and I hug each of them, first my mother, then Prim. "Prim, this is Sophia," I introduce them. "Cato's sister."

"Hi, I'm Primrose," Prim introduces herself. And although Sophia is looking at her suspiciously, with the slightest hint of contempt, I don't think she'll be able to resist Prim's persistent kindness for long.

Then I hug Gale, holding him close and letting myself be relieved for just a second, because here's someone who's relationship with me is uncomplicated and unbreakable. "Are you doing okay?" he asks me. I know he's been watching the tour, and I'm sure he could see the pain in me everyone else missed.

"Yeah, I am. He's back to being himself," I say, pointing at Cato. "So that's… good. Um, hey, Gale," I say, because it occurs to me that I might have a match made in heaven here. "Gale, this is Silas," I say, putting my arm around Silas. "Cato's little brother. Can you keep him close to you while I'm busy? Don't touch his back," I whisper.

"Sure," Gale nods, and he examines Silas, looking at him with those eagle eyes of his. He reaches out and touches his the concealed scrape across his face, and Silas doesn't move, looking at Gale seriously. "What happened to you?" he asks softly.

"Accident," Silas says.

I'm watching this whole encounter very closely, to make sure Gale doesn't do something that might scare Silas. I mean, Gale's not an idiot, but he is a tall, relatively strong man who could definitely hurt Silas like the other men he's known, and it'd be so easy for him to do something completely wrong and not even know it.

But he doesn't. Gale's quiet and slow right now, like when he's approaching a wild animal, and Silas isn't running away. "You training for the games?" he asks.

"Yeah," Silas says, very aware that it may be a bad thing.

For once, Gale doesn't break into an anti-Capitol rant. "Wow," he says. "So what, you know a hundred ways to kill me right now?" he jokes, and I recognize his tone. His reliable big brother instincts are kicking in, and he's doing great.

I leave them alone for a second, look over at Cato to make sure he's doing okay. Prim's hugging him, him lifting her off the ground and Sophia watching closely, possibly jealous. As I watch, my mother says something to Sophia, looking at her nose, and Sophia doesn't answer. I'm pretty sure she expects my mom to be like hers, but that's not true. Haymitch is standing a little back from them, watching the whole thing gruffly.

So I look back to Silas and Gale. Silas is up on Gale's back, holding on around his neck, looking very surprised. Gale's very pleased with himself. "Where'd this one come from?" he asks me. "He's awesome." Silas smiles bashfully.

"Hey. They're all awesome," I say, clearly aware the two of them don't agree with me, though for very different reasons. "So do we have a presentation to get to, or what?"

"Oh, yeah. C'mon."

**A/N: ALRIGHT. Here's the situation. (Your parents went away on a week's vacation. They left the keys to the big red Porsche) No really. **

**So, the lovely caisha702 sent me a message to let me know that someone was posting this fic on the website wattpad, which I hadn't heard about until today. Turns out, caisha knew because her own fic was also plagiarized, and having discovered that, she turned into an awesomely good Samaritan and let me know. My immediate reaction was rage. This person, EndraChaos, had posted 17 chapters without my permission, directly copying and pasting them aside from the author's notes. She was claiming to have written it. The story won an award. Thousands of reads. Hundreds of comments. A trailer, fan art, and stories based on it. None of them mentioned me. **

**Like I said. Fury. **

**Charlie and my sister got involved then. My sister comforted me so my hands stopped shaking. Charlie went to war. She's the best general a commander in chief could ask for; her first reaction was to go to four major One Direction fanfiction writers on tumblr with whom she had personal connections and get them to make posts to their crazy insane followers. Apparently, 1D fans are a protective bunch, because the other version of my fic got taken down within two hours from so much reporting. **

**EndraChaos deleted her account shortly after, apparently very distressed. She commented saying that she was mad because all of her "time and work" was destroyed. I leave the verity of that up to your judgment. **

**Here's where I started feeling like a chess grandmaster, or maybe a genius. I created a wattpad account with her old username and set up a story so it would have a redirect message to this version on here, and on the profile put a warning for other fanfiction writers/readers, as well as suggestions of how to get in touch with the true authors of the fanfics. **

**Within minutes, people were saying I hacked her page. Then Endra herself contacted me, asking for her url back and claiming she only did it because she loved my fanfiction so much. One user made a passionate plea for the fic to be continued on wattpad, since they couldn't get to for some reason. **

**I had a good half-hour long conversation with Endra, trying to figure out what exactly she thought was going on and why she did it. It seems to be some combination of "everyone else was doing it" and "I loved it so much I wanted it to be mine." Also, she's younger than 15, so I'm cutting her some slack here. Endra has her username back, and I allowed her to put the story back up as long as it was dedicated to me and gave credit to me for writing it. I gently turned down her proposal that she "spice it up" with new characters and plot twists, and I made my own personal account to keep an eye on her behavior. So far, so good. No hard feelings and I'm going to forgive and mostly forget. **

**So. No action needs to be taken, but I thought you guys should know. If you want to repost this somewhere else, please do it, but GIVE ME CREDIT. I am not being greedy. I am protecting my copyrighted material that I've spent months writing, thinking, and actually dreaming about (which made me feel super pathetic). I'd love to reach a wider audience, but I need to be known as the author. I thought that went without saying, but now I'm going to say it just to be safe. **

**I love you all. You're all awesome fans. I think this was just a misstep.**


	27. Chapter 26

I take Cato's hand and we all walk down the street towards the town square. I start to hear some music, can see the flower chains and colorful ribbons decorating the surrounding buildings and such. We walk up onto the stage – Gale hesitates for half a second, but he comes with me, because he's supposedly family. People hurry around to set two more places for Silas and Sophia, and then the celebration officially begins.

Cato and I give our usual canned speeches, about hard work and our gratitude to the Capitol for letting us win. I do go off-track to say that I truly miss Peeta, and Cato squeezes my hand when I do, and it's comforting. And then there's the food – huge amounts of it, because twelve isn't used to having a victor. It's hard to see everything, so I catch small pieces of everything.

Silas is sitting next to Gale, and Sophia next to Prim. Whenever I look over at them, I see them smiling, although Cato's siblings are shy about it, like they don't want to believe they can be this happy. Prim seems to be actually getting along with Sophia, and Gale's being the best big brother ever to Silas. Even Haymitch seems to be enjoying himself.

And Cato, the two of us are the happiest we've been. "When you guys party, you go hard," he says softly. "Geez."

"Yeah, well, we don't get a chance too often. You like the food?"

"Sure." But that's really not the biggest thing on his mind. I catch him looking over at his brother and sister every couple of minutes. "Thanks for letting them come here," he says halfway through the feast.

"Of course." He kisses me, and it tastes like bread and onions, which is somehow really nice. "You want them to stay longer?" I ask.

"Well, yeah," he mumbles, glancing around like he's embarrassed by that. "Why?"

"Maybe we can do something about it."

Immediately, he shakes his head. "No, that's too crazy. Snow won't let that happen."

"He can't stop it."

"Yes, he can. Why are you being so…" Abruptly he stops talking.

"What?" I ask softly.

"No, nothing. I'm… I'm sorry. But you shouldn't be so reckless." He won't say it, but I realize what he means; I shouldn't be so reckless with his life, because that's really what I'm risking, here. No matter what, they won't kill me, but they can do almost anything they want to him. I have to stop thinking about just myself.

"You're right, of course you're right," I say. "I'm sorry. The kids are going to survive if they go back. I'm not going to risk you, though."

He pulls me close, bumping into my side. He can't bring himself to say thank you, but I don't need him to. He shouldn't have to thank me for being responsible with his life. I love him, I'm worried about him, and I resolve right now to think of him more.

Apart from us on the stage, there's the rest of the district in the square. They're also eating, drinking, having a good time. Towards the end of the celebration, Ryan comes onstage, hesitantly, like he's not sure if he's allowed to do this. But I wave him over to me. "How are you?" I ask him, standing up to hug him.

"Doing good. How was the tour?"

"Alright. I mean, as good as possible I guess. He remembers now, so that made it better."

Ryan looks to Cato. "Really?"

"Yep." Cato nods once.

"That's great, man," Ryan says, and he sincerely means it, which is sweet.

"How've things been here while I was gone?" I ask.

Ryan shrugs, glances over at his family in exasperation. "Fine. Edan's been an idiot and almost got punished about fifty more times, but he's been okay so far. And Dad's starting to be less… depressed or whatever."

I nod. "That's… good." Slightly awkward pause. "Oh, did you hear we brought his little sister and brother?" I point over at them. "Sophia and Silas."

"Oh, cool. Are they…" He stops talking for a sec. "They're training for the games?"

"Yeah," Cato says, somehow conveying everything in that word, how guilty he feels about that, how helpless he is, and how much he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Gotcha. Okay. Well, see you later?"

"Yeah, for sure," I agree, and sit back down as he walks away.

"He's nice," Cato says, almost like that's a surprise to him.

"Don't you remember that?"

"Not exactly. He's not…" He hesitates. "I guess it's the memory thing. I thought he was… no, it's stupid. I believe you, that he's nice, okay, so let's just leave it, okay?"

"Sure," I agree, looking at him cautiously, because I'm worried about him.

"It's okay. Don't freak out," he says. "The old memories are just kind of… persistent. Even though I know what's actually true, it's still… hazy. I'm not sure about… any of it."

"You need me to do something?"

"No, no, you're… don't do anything, you're fine. I just think it's going to be like that kind of forever, now. I mean, I remember it all, but there's things like that. Like him. I guess he seems like a nice guy. But I just remember him wanting me dead because I killed his brother," he says in a low voice. "And I even know that probably wasn't true."

"So why do you think it?"

"Because it's how I'm supposed to think." He glances at me, then says, "We're supposed to be having fun. Let's not talk about this. I trust you, all of you. We'll be okay."

He shouldn't be the one reassuring me in this situation. "Or course," I say. "We'll be awesome." I lean over and kiss him again. "I won't let you forget anything. Promise."

"Thanks," he says after a second.

We do our best to enjoy the celebration. After a while, we don't even have to pretend; the joy around us is infectious. Seeing my family happy makes me happy, and Cato lets himself be almost happy, especially when he looks at his siblings. They're both less stressed than I've seen them. Sophia especially loves being the center of attention, which she is, since she's a novelty, and she's thrilled.

After several hours with Gale, Silas appears at my elbow during a speech from the mayor. He's completely silent, as usual, and seems content to stay standing there, but once I notice him, I whisper, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Then why're you over here?"

He hesitates, and I look over at him, worried. He looks at me with his huge eyes, judging me before he answers. "Can I sit here?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Why, did Gale get obnoxious?"

One corner of his mouth tilts up in a smile for a second. "No."

I don't push him for more details, because he'd probably never admit to being scared by someone, especially in public like this. "Sure you can. C'mere." I reach out for him and he doesn't flinch as much as he holds himself very still.

He does look extremely surprised when I put him on my lap. I almost say something about it, make some comment about hasn't he ever sat on someone's lap before? But then it occurs to me that he probably never has. So I put my arm around his waist and hold him there during the rest of the speech.

I'm super conscious of his back, doing my absolute best not to hurt him. While they're applauding for the Mayor and I'm snacking on some of the cheese buns from my plate, Silas leans back into me a little. It's not a lot, technically, but it feels like it.

I mean, the more I learn about this kid, the more I realize he's got even more right than Cato to be skittish of the entire world. At least Cato's a huge man with the ability to beat the shit out of anyone who threatens him. Silas is tiny, young, and vulnerable. Maybe that's why it feels so important that he trusts me, even just a little.

"You're okay?" I say to him.

"Yeah," he says, and when I sit back, he does, too. I ruffle his corn silk hair and put my arm tighter around his waist. And that's all he says for the rest of the ceremony, even when Cato and I whisper comments to each other. Cato pretends not to notice that his brother is right on top of me, which is probably a good thing.

When everything's over, we all stand. "Do you have pockets?" I mutter to Cato.

"Yeah. Why?" He seems nervous about my answer.

"Here." I hand him several cheese buns. "Hold onto these for me. You too," I say to Silas, and he looks at me like he thinks I might be joking. "I'm serious, do it," I say, so he does.

"Why, though?" Silas whispers to me.

"Because they're freaking awesome. Eat one. They're made in heaven," I whisper, and he just looks at me like I'm crazy.

We get offstage and everybody congregates a little ways away from the steps down. "Are you going to stay with us again?" I ask Cato.

"If you want."

"And what about the kids, they stay with us, too?"

Before he can say anything, Prim comes up to us, enthusiastic. "Katniss, can Sophia stay with us?" she begs. "Please?"

"Um, why? Do you two get along?" I say, frowning. I thought they'd cooperate, at least, but this is beyond anything I'd hoped for. "She doesn't exactly seem like… your type."

"Well, maybe she isn't exactly, but she's nice," Prim says.

Cato laughs one, harshly. "No, she isn't."

Prim pouts. "Maybe not right now. But she could be."

Any other time, I would scoff at her internally for seeing the best in someone so obstinately, but I've really got no room to speak, especially in this particular case. There's this weird sibling thing going on, where I'm believing in Cato and my sister's believing in his sister. So instead of scoffing, I understand better than I'd like to admit. Plus, there really is no reason to object. So I say, "Sure. As long as you're sure she wants to, too."

"She does!" Prim says over her shoulder, already skipping back to Sophia.

Cato looks suspiciously at her, watching her go. "This is weird," he says.

"Yep. But I think it's a good thing. I hope it is," I add uncomfortably.

"What about me?" Silas asks from next to me.

Crap. He's been listening to us this whole time. "If you want to," I say. He looks confused for a second, and I remember that no one's probably ever asked him what he wants and actually cared about it. Also, he doesn't have any other options, really. So I correct myself. "Yeah, you can. Of course you can. C'mere."

I take them with me and go find my mother. "You met Sophia, right?" I ask her.

"Yes, I did. And this is?" she says, looking at Silas.

"Silas. He's going to stay with us, too." I hesitate before next question, because I don't know if I should tell her this. I'm pretty sure Silas doesn't want everyone knowing about his back, but she could seriously help. So I just ask. "Do you have anything to fix his back? It's… well, like Cato's was before."

Her eyes widen in shock and horror. "What happened?"

"Long story. It happened a while ago, so it's scabbed over and healing, but I'm sure it hurts terribly. Right?" I glance down at Silas, who doesn't say anything, then at Cato, who's also silent. "Like some of that herbal salve or whatever," I finish faintly.

"Sure. I have some ice left from what you brought home, I can make something really quick," she says almost right away. I can see sympathy in her eyes when she glances down at Silas. She's smart enough not to try to hug him or something, but she does say, "Come on home with us, honey."

It's a big group that walks home together; my family, Cato's family, Haymitch, and Gale and his family for part of the way. My mother and Haymitch walk with the little girls, and I catch Haymitch teasing them a couple times.

I don't really look at them a lot, though, because I've got Cato and Silas on either side of me, and Gale reaching over Silas to put his arm around my shoulder. The two boys most important to me and someone who's quickly becoming like a little brother. Cato's holding my hand and Silas is holding the other, and I'm not sure if I can imagine being happier.

"So you remember?" Gale says to Cato. "What happened? Somebody punched you in the face with common sense?"

Silas looks up at his brother, worried for a second, but Cato just says "Kind of."

"Seriously, though, what was it?" Gale presses. "Is there like, a switch?"

"No. They missed a couple memories. Katniss found them."

It's pretty obvious that he doesn't want to talk about it, so Gale backs off. "Well. Glad you're not trying to kill Katniss anymore. That was getting weird."

"You don't have to tell me."

"Right. How'd the tour go?"

"Good, once we could look at each other," I wrinkle my nose. "I'm never going to wear another dress, though." I panic for a second. "Wait, did they bring all my clothes from the train off? Because-"

Cato stops me. "Don't worry. Cinna got them."

"You get to keep those dresses?" Gale asks.

"Yeah. Except I don't know where I'm s'posed to wear a dress made entirely of sapphires."

"Hunting," Gale suggests.

I punch him in the arm. "Shut up. Did you get the fence open again?"

"No. I'm still healing from the last time the Peacekeepers got pissed. I'm not gonna risk that again. Pretty sure Cato's not gonna be stupid enough to save my life again."

"Pretty sure," Cato says. One corner of his mouth twitches up into a smile, though, and Gale can sense that he's joking.

"Yeah. I've started at the mines, though, so I don't have a lot of time."

"Seriously?" I frown. "I was gone like a week."

Gale just shrugs. "I mean, I guess there's that spot behind the Hob we could try. It's kind of far, though. Whatever. I'm off for the next day, if you want to try it."

"Sure."

"We could take the kid." Gale looks down at Silas. "Ever seen woods?"

Silas shakes his head.

"Then let's take him," Gale says to me.

"Well… would you want to come?" I ask Cato, because I don't want to leave him alone.

"No. I've got things to do," he says. "Go ahead, it's fine."

"Then sure, let's do it. He'll be with me, so come get us whenever you want, I guess."

Gale smiles, one of his old, almost carefree smiles that makes me smile in response. "It's a date."

The other three of us look at him in a combination of surprise, worry, and on Cato's part, silent anger. "Not a date," I say, trying to stop it from getting out of hand.

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply…"

Cato cuts Gale off. "Oh, you implied it," he says, his voice deadly quiet.

"It's a figure of speech," Gale says defensively. "Calm down, man."

"I am calm."

It's true, he is, but there's rage just beneath the surface. We can all tell. Especially Silas, who's almost shrunk in on himself and doesn't look up from the ground. I swear his hand in mine has gotten colder in the last twenty seconds.

More than interest in my own self-preservation, it's wanting to protect Silas that prompts me to get involved again. "Both of you, stop it." I nudge Gale's arm off my shoulder and walk a little faster, squeezing Cato's hand tightly to remind him where he is, who he is.

Gale follows us angrily, obviously wanting a fight. "Katniss, I didn't mean anything like that," he says. "You know that. But you're just gonna listen to whatever he says now? Is that it? Your attack dog gets pissed and you calm him down?"

"Not even a little," I start to argue, but Cato lunges for him before I can say another word, murder in his face. "Cato!" I say sharply, so loud I can feel my vocal chords strain. "Don't." I drop Silas' hand, clench my fists just in case, and pretend not to see how our families are walking past us, letting this happen because they know better than to stop it. "Stop it," I say, but I don't get between him and Gale yet. If they're going to get into a fight, I'm not going to be the idiot that tries to stop them.

Gale doesn't say anything, but his face dares Cato do something.

Cato's carefully controlled expression doesn't waver. "You honestly expect me to believe you weren't trying to make any kind of claim on her?" he says.

"Nobody's making any claims on me," I object.

"Yeah?" Gale snorts. "Then what the hell is that necklace?" He points at the chain around my neck with Cato's tags, keys, and the video stick.

"None of your damn business," I say, glaring at him. "Don't tell me you're going to get like this again, because I don't know if I can handle that."

Gale scowls at me and says, "This isn't your fight, Katniss. Don't get involved."

"The hell it isn't! My two best friends in the world are about to rip each others' faces off and I'm not supposed to get involved? Don't be stupid, Gale. Stop trying to start a fight. C'mon, Cato, let's go."

But he doesn't take the hand I offer him, doesn't even look at me. He's too busy glaring at Gale as fiercely as he can. "I should rip you apart," he says evenly.

"Go ahead and try," Gale says.

I do not like the sound of this, or how Cato twitches towards him, ready to do exactly that. And since I know him so well, I know he'll succeed; although Gale's strong, Cato's stronger. He just doesn't know he'll be ripping my heart apart in the process. "Don't do this," I say softly. "Don't."

Somehow, that gets through to him better than my shouting did. He stops moving towards Gale and glances at me. "He still loves you," he says.

"That's not-" But one look at Gale, and I know that he hasn't told me anything. "You do?"

Gale curses. "Maybe a part of me is always going to love you, alright? I can't help that, I'm sorry, alright? That's how it is. But I know I don't have a chance. Don't worry about that," he says bitterly, and goes to walk away, towards his house, separate from the rest of us.

**A/N: Hey guys. Sorry this chapter took so long, but I've been dealing with an obnoxious little girl. Long story short, Endra took credit for my story again, I asked her to take it down for good, she deleted her account again. Then she claimed to be hacked and was threatening to hack other people, but it was her sister. I thoroughly argued that excuse out of her, but it's just been a lot of annoying crap like that. (though if you want screenshots of our battle of wits, message me for a link to the post on tumblr I made)**

**I decided to post the whole thing on wattpad myself, just so there's no confusion, and she posted to deliver petty threats about deleting a trailer she made for the fic and stuff. Whatever. I don't care. I'm so done with this. One girl stuck up for me and Endra threatened to "hack" her. Honestly, I don't even know what to do about this anymore. **

**SO end result is that I'm going to ignore her and focus on the people who don't give me pointless shit about things that don't matter. **

**Hi! I love you all! Please enjoy reading this. The next chapter will be the last. Then after that, there will be the epilogue and bonus material that I never got around to posting. And then****…****. THE SEQUEL (after a short break).**


	28. Chapter 27

**A/N: Last chapter, guys. Not much to say cuz I'll say it all in the epilogue. 3**

Cato wants to start after him, I can see it in his eyes, but he doesn't, though I think that's in large part due to the fact that I finally got my hand around his. "C'mon," I say, but he doesn't move.

"Is it really like that?" he says. "What, I overreact and you pull me back to a person?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then what is?"

I hesitate. "Look, you're protective. That's usually great. But you overreacted. So yeah, I pulled you back, because that's what you do when someone slips up. Not because that's what I always do with you. Not because that's what you always need. You're usually the more together one, remember?"

"Yeah," he nods reluctantly.

"That's all that happened here. Except when I lose it, I don't threaten people's lives. I cry."

"I should probably work on that."

"Probably." I hold my other arm out for him, hug him for a second, partially to show him I'm not scared of him, partially because I just like being close to him. "You're working with warped memories," I remind him.

"Right." He lets go of me, kind of nods at something behind me, so I turn to see Silas, who's been standing here this whole time. He looks scared, but resolute; he doesn't move, even when I step towards him.

"Um, sorry," I say uncomfortably. "That was…" There's no way to explain what just happened, no way to excuse it, so I change the subject. "Mom's probably waiting for us."

Silas nods, but he keeps his distance from Cato even more than before. He walks at a distance from the two of us, and keeps glancing over like he's scared something's going to happen. I guess I can't exactly blame him. Cato's still tense, his hand clenched around mine, his jaw locked shut. He's still pissed.

"Do you really think he could convince me to pick him over you?" I say when we're within sight of the house.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You've gotta learn to trust me."

"I do trust you. I just don't trust _him_," he mutters with a dark look back where we came from. He holds the door open for Silas and me when we go inside. Once we're in, he stops and stops me, too. "I do trust you," he repeats. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I say sincerely. "I believe you."

He nods, and we go into the kitchen, where my mom's explaining to Silas and Sophia what she's making. I don't know what the actual name of it is, if it has one, or how to make it. Prim and I have always just called it magic water, because it makes any injury feel better instantly, like magic. It's best when Mom mixes the herbs in snow, but it's not quite cold enough for snow yet. So now, she mixes it with a bowl of ice water, stirring it for a second.

To demonstrate its effect, she soaks a rag in it and wipes it over Sophia's eyes and nose; I feel a tug in my gut when I see how Sophia closes her eyes preemptively, then opens them immediately again, pretending nothing happened. Silas manages to keep his eyes open while Mom wipes the water over his scrape. Both of them are tense for a second, like they're expecting it to hurt, then they look at Mom in surprise.

"What's in this?" Sophia asks.

"Family secret," my mom smiles. She's about to say something else, but then she glances at me and seems to change her mind. "Katniss, how about you take care of his back," she suggests, holding the bowl and rag out to me.

"Okay," I say after a second of surprise, because I'm never the first choice to take care of someone who's injured. I get the feeling that there's some ulterior motive at work here, but I can't tell what exactly it is.

Since I'm not very good with these kinds of things, my mother gives me a little help. She sits Silas up on the table, sends Prim and Sophia into the living room, worries at Cato until he agrees to sit down in a chair while he looks moody. And then she leaves too, making some excuse about an errand to go on that I don't really listen to.

Silas' back looks worse than before, somehow, though I'm pretty sure that's just me. The dried blood and swollen welts make me cringe when I see them again. It takes several seconds for me to be able to touch him, even though I know I'm only going to help him. But he just looks so little, sitting there on the table, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched and head down.

Carefully, I soak the rag, but it's rough, and I don't want to even possibly hurt him, so I decide to use my fingers. I dip my hand in the water and carefully wipe the top of his shoulder, as gently as I can, then dip again and keep moving down his back.

Silas relaxes almost right away as the water takes effect, letting out his breath all at once. "How long does this work for?" he asks.

"A couple hours. And we can put more on, if you want."

He doesn't respond to that – probably thinks it'd be like admitting to weakness or something, and that kind of pisses me off. I hate everyone who's made him this way. Half of me never wants to let him go back to those people who pretend to be his parents. The other half knows I shouldn't get involved. It'd be a rebellion. Snow would be mad. And that's not even considering how everyone else in both our districts would take it.

When I'm finished with his back, I put a little water on the worst of his bruises. Silas rolls his shoulders experimentally, straightens his arms out and stretches. "Thanks," he says, turning to look at me with his eyes that are so similar to Cato's right now.

"No problem." He puts on his shirt, which sticks to the wet spots on him. "You're sure you're okay now?" I ask, because I can't help myself.

"Yeah," he nods. "I'm fine." He crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders. "It's kind of normal where we come from, though, y'know."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I have to like it," I'm about to say, but I only get the first three words out, because Cato stands up and abruptly walks out. I hear him go up the stairs and a door slams.

Something's wrong. "I'm going to… can you go talk with Prim or something?" I ask Silas.

He looks at me, and I can tell he knows at least part of what's going on. "Sure," he says.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," he shrugs.

So I run up the steps to my room, where the door is shut, and knock gently on it. "Cato?"

No answer.

I open the door slowly, peer in. Cato's sitting on the bed, head in his hands, not moving. "What's going on?" I ask.

"Nothing. Go take care of Silas."

"He's fine. You aren't. What is it?"

"Don't. Just… don't, okay? I'll be fine. Please. Go."

"No," I say gently. "Tell me." He won't. So I take a guess. "Silas is going to be okay. He doesn't even feel a thing."

"Good for him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I frown.

Cato clenches his hands into fists and digs them in his eyes. "Look," he says. "That is great. It's good that he's okay. But…"

"But what?"

"You don't get it," he shakes his head. "I can hold it together most of the time, okay, that's what we're trained to do. Never show anything. But I'm not… I'm not a whole person, okay? I'm not alright." He pauses, then says almost angrily, "Do you know what I would've given to have somebody like you take care of me when I was his age?"

"No…"

"What his back looks like, that was an easy day for me. But nobody gave a shit about that, as long as I kept putting on muscle and beating other kids up."

"Wait, why were you ever in trouble?"

"They make an example of the top students. To show everybody no one was safe. I couldn't sleep for days sometimes, it hurt so bad. And I didn't get any help." He rubs the back of his head. "And that doesn't just go away."

"Go away how?"

He doesn't answer for a second, working out his answer. "I can pretend all I want that I'm okay, because sometimes with you, I can almost think that I am. But as much we want that to be true, it's not. It's just… not."

"I don't understand," I have to say.

He kind of laughs once, bitterly. "Of course you don't." He stands up and walks over to the window. "I'm glad I have you, okay? I'm glad we're together and that I remember you. But no matter what happens, some of me is going to be a bloody little kid that nobody cares about, alright? The memory change thing only makes that more obvious." He hesitates. "I'm not who you think I am. I guess it's time you find that out."

It's a second before I'm able to talk. "I don't think you're anything. I know I don't know you. I'm okay with that."

"Well, you're stupid then."

"I am," I agree. "Come here."

He doesn't move at first, standing at the window like he's not sure I mean it. Then he comes over slowly, straight into my outstretched arms. He hugs me tightly, and we stay like that for several minutes without saying a word. "I still love you," I finally say.

"You're crazy," he says with a smile in his voice.

"I know."

Abruptly, he sits back, lets go of me, frowns and looks at the door. "Silas," he says sharply.

I'm sure he's nuts, but then Silas reluctantly comes into view. He glances at me hopefully, but Cato's the one who talks.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it," Silas says.

He's obviously nervous. I don't want to think about what's happened to him at home when he was caught eavesdropping. Whatever it is, that's what he thinks will happen now. But Cato doesn't do anything. He doesn't even get mad. "C'mere," he says.

Silas looks at his brother for a very long time, then hesitantly walks over, keeping well outside of arms' reach. He looks at Cato blankly, and I remember what Cato said before, about not showing anything. The trainers have already had Silas for a year; I guess that's one of the earliest things they learn.

Cato and him stare at each other for a moment. Then Cato holds one arm out to him. Silas flinches, but all Cato does is hold it there.

His brother has no idea what to do; I doubt he even knows what Cato's trying to do. He doesn't move for a moment. Then, Cato says "C'mon." So Silas hesitantly comes closer, just close enough for Cato to barely touch him.

Cato pulls him close, first by his arm, then by wrapping his arm around his little brother's waist and holding him against himself really tightly. I can only see Silas's face; he's completely terrified at first. Then he shuts his eyes and lets out his breath.

And then the two of them are hugging for what I think is the first time in their lives. Finally, it's how it's supposed to be. Cato's huge arms around his little brother are protective, instead of anything else. Silas lets himself give in for a second and feel comforted, protected.

Watching this makes me just want to hug them both at once, but I don't. I barely move, scared that I'll somehow screw it up. I guess I don't; they stay like that for a while, so long I'm not sure that they're going to let go. But then they do.

Reluctantly, Silas lets go of his brother and straightens up, looking at Cato awkwardly. And Cato can't completely let go of him. He keeps one arm around Silas, and Silas doesn't complain. "I'm sorry," Cato says.

Silas shakes his head, doesn't answer. I guess there's really not a lot for him to say.

"So you heard all that," Cato says, his voice rough. "That I just said to her."

"Yeah."

"And?"

Silas looks at him for a second, calculating what he should and will say. "You're different now," he says. "You never would've said that."

Cato doesn't deny that. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About what I said."

"It was… stupid. But not bad," Silas says softly, and he's scared to say that. He's scared to break the rules, even if Cato just did, afraid of the consequences.

But Cato doesn't get mad. He doesn't even react, really. I guess he knows what to do to put Silas at ease, because Silas doesn't get scared at all. He's standing between Cato's legs, with his brother's arm around him, and he's almost completely at ease. At least, he's pretty relaxed for being around someone who used to hurt him in the not-so-distant past. "I guess that's pretty true," Cato says. Then he turns to me. He gives me this look that I can't particularly name, but it's some combination of him wanting my opinion and being proud and being guilty. "Right?" he says.

"Yeah, sure," I nod. "But you pretty much freaked the hell out about Gale. So I guess you're pretty stupid for me most of the time." I don't know if it's okay to say that around Silas, but it's too late to go back now.

And Cato doesn't seem to mind it. "I guess. Is he gonna be pissed at you?"

"I don't think so. Not for very long, at least. But the two of you should probably work things out. You're probably going to know each other for the rest of your lives, so…"

"Rest of our lives?"

"Yeah, unless you plan on leaving."

"I'm not leaving." I was just kidding around, but he's serious. "I'll go talk to him tomorrow. Whenever you go to take him into the woods," he says, motioning at Silas.

"And by 'talk', you don't mean 'beat the shit out of'?" I say, teasing him again.

Silas looks uncomfortable, but Cato answers calmly. "No. Just talk. Lucky for him."

"Yeah." Can't deny that. "So tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," he agrees, and then he smiles for a second. "Really glad Sophia wasn't the one eavesdropping."

That's kind of mean, but also extremely true. And it makes Silas laugh once. "Yeah."

"You don't think she would've taken it well?" I say.

"Kidding me? No," Cato says, completely sure. "She's… she's like how I was. She wouldn't get it."

"Not yet, maybe."

Cato hesitates. "Maybe," he says, but it's pretty obvious he doesn't think there's much chance of anything other response from his sister. It's pretty pessimistic, yeah, but I guess if anyone knows about her, it'd be him.

It's pretty safe to say that Silas isn't scared of Cato anymore. During the rest of the day, he lets his guard down a little, and I love it. I put more magic water on his back twice during the day, and on Sophia's nose the one time she humbles herself enough to ask.

Sophia is still just as brazenly confident as before, but it's kind of tempered by Prim's kindness. The two of them get along well enough, although Sophia doesn't understand Prim's affection for Cato. I really don't think she understands affection at all, given the way she looks at Cato and me whenever we hold hands.

Mom makes a dinner, a great dinner by our standards but pretty unremarkable compared to Capital food. I'm expecting some sort of comment from the kids, but they just seem content to be eating at all, which is awful.

And then most of us end up in the living room. It starts as just Cato and me, because he takes me up on my suggestion to fill him in on what's true and what isn't. He's still pretty foggy on those things, and it's been a problem, so I want to fix that.

But then Prim ends up staying with us, to explain things I can't. She holds onto him when things almost get to be too much, when the altered memories get too convincing and he looks at me like he thinks I'm going to hurt him, and Silas sits with me, lets me hold him closer when I get worried about Cato. And Sophia sits next to Prim, looking at us like we're aliens. I guess in some ways, that's what we are.

We end up talking for several hours, until it's pitch black outside. We don't realize how late it's gotten until Silas makes a comment about the stars – I guess they can't see them in 2. That's when I notice that it's past midnight and Prim's almost asleep.

"You guys need to be in bed," I say, standing up. Silas winces when I touch his back, so I say, "I'll put more water on before bed."

"Thanks," he mutters.

"Prim, put Sophia in your room, okay?" I say. She nods, and the two of them go upstairs. And then I just have to worry about the three of us. We're not going to fit in my bed, so one of us will probably have to sleep on the couch.

I'm deliberating how to bring this up when Mom comes in the room. "You can have my bedroom," she says. "I'll take yours. I'm not using that big bed anyway."

"No, Mom, you don't have to do that," I start to argue, because she's my mother. She should have the bigger bedroom, just purely based on respect for her giving birth to me.

But she won't be moved. "You won us this house. Don't worry, I'll be fine. And I already moved your things."

"Thanks," I say.

"Of course. More water is up on the bed." And then she just walks away, like she didn't just do the nicest thing ever.

"Why'd she do that?" Cato says.

I just kind of shrug and lead the two of them up the stairs to the master bedroom. Mom hung everything up for me, even, all the gowns from the Victor's Tour, and the water is on the bed, just as promised. "I'm gonna shower," Cato says, and goes into the bathroom.

"Alright, get your pajamas… or something comfortable," I add when Silas gives me a confused look. "Just change. And leave your shirt off, get on the bed, okay?"

"Okay."

I turn away from him and pull on some stretchy pants, one of Cato's shirts that I've saved to sleep in. When I'm changed, I turn back to find him on the bed, lying down with his head on his arms, shirt off. His back looks better than it did before, less inflamed and puffy. "How does it feel?" I ask.

"Better, I guess."

He looks so frail, lying there. He's so thin. Not weak, but not at all muscular. He's only nine, after all. Slowly, I sit down on the bed next to him, folding one leg under myself and somehow resisting from gathering him up in my arms.

I dip my hands in the water and run them over his back, first gently, then again, pushing down harder when I'm sure he won't feel it. I feel all the knots in his back, all the tension, and I fell absolutely terrible. No kid should be this stressed.

"You're okay? You'll be able to sleep, at least?" I ask.

"Yeah. Um. In here?"

"Do you _want_ to sleep somewhere else? Alone or something."

He shakes his head, unsure if it's okay to admit that.

"Okay, well then yeah, in here. Or wherever you want. You're safe," I assure him.

He sits up arching his back like a cat for a second, then he looks at me seriously. I don't know what he's going to do, but whatever I was thinking about, it wasn't what he does; he almost falls into me in his haste to hug me, his thin arms around my lower back, his head buried in my chest.

I'm very surprised. "What's wrong?" I ask, gingerly putting my arms over his wet back.

"Nothing," he mumbles. After a few moments, he curls his legs up underneath himself and stays there, leaning against me.

"You're okay?" I check after a few moments, because if there's something seriously injured that I've missed, then I should take care of that.

"Yeah," he says. We sit like for a while longer, and I hesitantly put one hand on his head, pulling him closer and holding him there, cradled against me. "Can you always be close by?" he says softly after a second, clinging tightly to me.

"Why would you want that?"

"Nothing bad happens when you're around."

He couldn't have broken my heart more efficiently if he wanted to. "I'll do everything I can," I say. "But I don't know how much that is." I really hate that I can't just say yes, but I'm not going to lie, either.

He doesn't complain or whine. Calmly, he asks, "Why?"

"President Snow gets mad if I break too many rules. And then he'll hurt other people I care about." I won't tell him about Cato's deal in the Capitol. That's too harsh, even for a kid like him. "He killed all of Haymitch's family. And I can't let that happen. I'm sorry. But I'll stay with you as much as possible, okay? I promise."

"Okay."

"And I'll do everything that I can to keep you safe, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll keep you here, or go home with you, or anything."

He nods, holding onto me. I ruffle his hair then smooth it down with the back of my hand, and keep doing that, messing with his hair and fixing it because it's really very soft, and I love touching it. Possibly even more than I like his brother's hair.

And then Cato comes out, hot air and a little steam escaping from the bathroom behind him. His hair is sticking up in every direction, still damp, and he's wearing a tank top and sweatpants. I guess he doesn't care about me seeing his scars anymore. He gets into bed, leaning against the headboard, and he looks at Silas and me. Silas doesn't move.

"You're okay?" Cato asks.

"Yeah, we're fine." I move against the headboard next to him, holding Silas against me. He doesn't seem to mind – just curls tighter against me and locks his arms tighter around me.

"Is he asleep?"

"No," Silas says.

"Oh." Cato looks from me to his brother, then back to me again, seemingly very worried. "So are you going to sleep?"

"Yeah, pretty soon. Feel free to."

He has no idea what's going on here, but he doesn't say anything else. After a second, he puts his hand over the back of my head, turning my head a little so I'm looking at him. And then, without any preamble, he kisses me, quickly, softly.

"What was that for?" I ask, trying not to smile at him.

"Nothing." He looks at his Silas' back, doesn't say anything, and then he doesn't _do_ anything either. He just sits there and looks at us. After several minutes of silence, he pulls the blankets out from under and me and over my legs. He almost touches Silas' back, then stops, and gets under the blankets himself.

Just like last time Silas was on my lap, I calm down without any conscious choice on my part. My breathing slows, I'm nearly positive that my heartbeat does too. I could sit here holding him for maybe forever. I lean my head down on his head and close my eyes for a second. He's just as good as a pillow.

I'm almost asleep when Silas talks. "I don't want to be a tribute," he says softly.

Cato stiffens, whips his head around to look at Silas, and Silas seems to shrink into me, like he's scared of Cato's reaction. I don't know why, but I instinctually tighten my arms around Silas. "Okay," I say, staying calm. "All of a sudden?"

"No."

"All along?"

"Yeah."

Cato's still staring at him. I glare at him in confusion and silently will him not to speak. "And why can't you just stop training?" I ask, because I know there's a reason I'm unaware of.

"Lifetime of being an outcast," Cato says sharply. "And the rest of the tributes would beat the shit out of him. More than they do." He adds that last part reluctantly.

"Is that true?" I ask Silas, running my fingers through his hair in a way that's supposed to be comforting and apparently works.

He nods into my shoulder. "And Mom and Dad would kill me."

I'm sure that's true. "I'll try to figure something out," I say, because that's the least I can offer. He's so sweet, leaning into me and confessing these things quietly. "If there's anything I can do, I'll do it."

"But only if everyone else is okay, too."

"Okay." He's starting to feel a little cold to the touch, so I say, "Wanna put on your shirt?"

He sits up straight, grabs the shirt off the bed from behind him, and shrugs it on in a movement that is so exactly like how Cato puts on his shirts. It completely takes me by surprise; I have to take a second to recover, so I sit motionless while he snuggles back into me. He sits next to me this time, against the very soft pillows on the opposite side of where Cato is. I put my arm around him and he nestles into my side.

"You feel okay? You're going to be able to sleep?" I ask him.

"Yeah." He rubs his eyes in a little-kid-tired gesture that I recognize from Prim.

I pat his head, then push the hair off his forehead, smooth it back down. I look down at him. "So you don't want to be a tribute. What _do_ you want to be?"

"I don't know."

"No idea?"

"They don't really give me time to think about anything."

I keep petting his hair, combing through it rhythmically, because I have this strange urge to protect him, comfort him. "What do they have you doing instead?"

"Training."

"That much training?"

He kind of shrugs one shoulder.

"What about when you're not training?"

"I'm at home."

"And you don't think about things at home?"

"Not really. I'm trying not to get hurt, mostly."

"Hurt?" I prompt after a second.

"By Mom. And Dad sometimes."

"What do they do?"

I have to ask again before he'll answer. "A lot of things."

"Like what? What do they do?"

"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head. "Everyone wants to, anyway."

"Oh, honey," I sigh, and I hold him tighter. And then I reach over for Cato with my other hand, because of what he said before. He was like Silas, too, at one point, except he didn't have anyone to tell him it was okay to be hurt, to want it to stop.

Cato lets me interlace my fingers with his, and he turns and lies down on his side, facing me, my hand cradled between his. I pull my hand free and rub the side of his head, flattening some of his still-disheveled hair, but not romantically. Just like he's my brother or something.

"I care about you," I say to him. "Both of you. I care when you're hurt."

He smiles up at me. "I know."

"Go to sleep."

"You know I don't need to, right?"

"Yeah, but you should."

"Okay." He doesn't argue. Neither did Silas. He stays cuddled into my side, though, without even attempting to lie down.

"You just going to sleep like this?" I say to Silas after a while.

"Yeah," he mumbles, half asleep.

Oddly, I'm not the slightest bit tired, even though I'm sitting here between two beautiful sleeping boys. After a little bit of quietly just sitting there, I lean over Cato and kiss the skin under his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, the corner of his jaw under his ear. All the places I've wanted to kiss but never felt girly enough to try. He smiles sleepily, but doesn't open his eyes.

And then I turn to Silas, who's officially asleep against my side, and I kiss him on the cheek. It's impossibly smooth and soft. Silas wakes up a little bit, enough to twitch his lips into a smile and pushing his face into my side. I'd never say this if he was awake, but since he isn't strictly conscious, I let myself lean down and whisper in his ear, "I love you. Even if you don't want to be a tribute."

He doesn't react, being asleep and all, but I don't need him to. I slide him down more so I can lie down and still hold on to him. Cato throws one arm over me the instant I'm horizontal. I can't tell if he's awake or not, but he's got a pretty tight grip on me.

"Shh. G'night." He tries to bring me closer, but I won't let go of Silas, so he ends up using his strength to pull both of us over to him. He puts his arm around my waist, where it seems to belong now.

I love him. So much my heart feels like it might explode in my chest. He's so unexpectedly sweet in a hundred different ways. I mean, I know he's not perfect, and he's done a lot of things in his past that are really, really bad. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice to be the least corrupted person in a room sometimes.

When I finally do fall asleep, it's for the whole night, without any interruptions. I have a few bad dreams that aren't too terrible, fuzzy and vaguely frightening, but none bad enough to wake me up. So instead of my own screaming, I just wake up on my own.

I don't open my eyes right away, because I'm warm and comfortable and happy, and I may never move again. Closer examination reveals Cato's arm is still over me, though Silas is gone and I'm somehow on my stomach. I don't panic about Silas; I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is. So I scoot back into Cato, closer against to his warm chest.

He wakes up then. "You're awake?" he says, his voice vibrating deep in his chest.

"Yeah."

"No dreams, then?"

"Actually no."

"That's good." He pulls me closer still, puts one leg over mine, and I'm completely surrounded, kind of almost swaddled, like a baby. The blankets are tangled in our legs, and I'm pretty sure that if I wanted to get out, I couldn't. But that doesn't bother me at all, which isn't nearly as much as it should.

"How do you feel?" I ask him. Part of me is unreasonably worried that he might suddenly not remember that he loves me. I'll probably worry about that forever.

But I don't have to worry today. "Fine. I remember everything still."

"Good."

We stay here silently for several minutes. Then I remember that we're going to see Gale today, so I say, "We should get up."

"Right." He stirs, then starts trying to untangle some of the blankets, throwing them in every direction. Finally, we get free, the air feeling surprisingly cold on my now bare legs. We both stand up, kind of unsteadily, and I stretch, pulling my arms above me. I catch him staring at me halfway through.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, then eventually adds, "You're beautiful," which makes me blush and awkwardly not say anything. I do punch his arm, but somehow, I feel that isn't appropriate.

Together, we get dressed and head downstairs. The other kids are already up, eating at the kitchen table, so we grab some food, too, and then Silas, Cato and I left for Gale's.

I'm understandably very nervous about the whole thing. The only time Cato and Gale have been able to stand being around each other has been when at least one of them was delirious with pain, and seeing as both of them are okay right now, it doesn't bode well. Hopefully, with Cato more mellow and Silas there, things won't fall apart. As long as Gale doesn't become that strange person he's been acting like recently.

I worry the whole walk there. Silas and Cato are both silent, but when we're outside Gale's door, Cato stops me. "I'm not going to do anything stupid," he says seriously.

"Okay. But Gale might. And you might do something that makes sense but is still…" I hesitate and try to figure out how to say this tactfully. But tact has never been my strong suit, and it's awkward standing on Gale's front porch, so I end up blurting out the second thing I can think of. "I'm starting to think you'll never get along, which I guess is fine, but just don't act like you're going to beat each other up every time you see him, okay?"

Cato attempts a smile. "It's not acting."

Silas shifts uncomfortably at the same time that I do. "You know what I mean," I say.

"Yeah."

I figure that's the best we're going to get at this point, so I knock on the door. After several seconds, it opens and Gale's standing there stiffly. "Hi," he says, looking only at me. "So we're going?"

"In a second," I nod.

Cato speaks up gruffly. "I overreacted yesterday. I don't want to keep you guys from being friends." Maybe it's just me, but I think he puts emphasis on that last word.

Gale looks at him for a long second. "That's good," he finally says. "And I'm not going to try to… I'm not risking my friendship with her."

That makes me feel slightly better. I'd never risk my friendship with him, either, and it's nice to hear he feels the same way. "You don't have to be best friends with him," I say to Gale like I did to Cato. "But don't try to be enemies."

"Yeah. Don't feel like a couple more cracked ribs today."

Silas looks from me to Gale, and then to Cato, trying to figure out if what's happening right now should scare him or not. He seems reassured when Cato says, "See you later. I've got stuff to do." Cato looks at Silas for a second. "Stick close to Katniss," he says. His brother nods, and Cato goes, closing the door.

"Where's Hazelle and the children?" I ask Gale. The house is suspiciously quiet.

"School. And in town, getting new clothes for the boys."

I'd forgotten all about school. "Right. So should we go?"

"Sure." We walk out of the house, and then Gale goes in a different direction than I expect. "I made a new hole in the fence," he says. "They keep finding them."

"You sure this one's safe?"

"Of course. I wouldn't take you there if it wasn't. Either of you. Ever been in the woods before?" he asks Silas, who shakes his head. "It's the getting there that's the hard part. After that, it's cake. Don't worry."

I love him when he's like this, when he's doing his big brother thing. Kids make him warmer than usual, kind and relaxed. The angry crust over him fades away, and it just leaves him, the other half of me.

"Did you take care of my bow?" I ask as we draw near to the fence. Silas looks worried, glancing around us like he's expecting someone to jump out and stop us, which I guess could happen but won't consider.

"Of course I did. It's ready to go, just inside the fence. So are we gonna shoot today?"

"I'm going to. You're going to teach Silas how to be even quieter."

Silas smiles at that. We duck under the fence, one at a time, just like before except that now, electricity hums through the wires around us. Gale goes last, herding us deeper in right away, until the trees and underbrush hide us from anyone on the other side.

Already, I can tell Silas is in his element. He loves it in here, and he keeps looking around at the trees and leaves with huge eyes. "What's that?" he says after a particularly loud birdcall.

"That's a mockingjay," Gale says. "If you sing to them, they'll sing back." He glances at me, but doesn't ask me to demonstrate, thankfully.

"What's that?" Silas asks, looking sharply to his left at a rustle in the bushes. At first it doesn't seem weird, until I realize he's talking about the sound of a squirrel moving through the bushes. This is his first time in the woods, and he picked that sound out of everything else. I don't know if that's cool or frightening.

"Squirrel," Gale says, impressed. "Catnip, your bow is in that log. You gonna stay by us?"

"Mostly." I shrug, pulling my bow out. While I'm restringing it and testing the weight to make sure I'm used to it, I hear Gale ask if Silas knows how to climb. By the time I turn around, he's up in a tree, perched on a swaying thin branch.

"Damn," Gale mutters.

"Hey, doesn't that hurt?" I ask Silas, because it just occurred to me that he isn't healed by a long shot and I didn't put any magic water on his back this morning.

"No. Your mom did the water thing," he says, looking down at us.

"Then why didn't she just do it in the first place?" I mutter, slightly annoyed but not really, because Silas is amazing and I have no problem with anything that gets me closer to him. "Are you guys gonna be quiet, or do I have to get away to accomplish anything?"

"No we'll be quiet," Gale promises.

So today is the first time we hunt together. I'm relatively positive it won't be the last.

When we get back to our house, Cato and Prim are sitting next to each other on the couch, watching the television on the opposite wall. "What have you two been up to?" I ask curiously.

"Nothing," Cato says, and Prim doesn't argue.

"Okay then. What are you watching?" My shoes are a little muddy, so I kick them off and shrug off my leather jacket, then go to sit by Cato, snuggling into his arm. Every time I come back to him and he still wants to be with me, it's a gift, one I'll never get tired of. The next time I come back to him, I'll always expect him to hate me again.

"It's the Quarter Quell. Snow's going to announce the new set of rules," he says, somehow getting me even closer. I guess he likes me liking him or something.

"And you just weren't going to tell me?" I frown.

Prim answers that one. "Katniss, I told him you'd be back by now, and you are. Plus, if we told you about it, you'd just be freaking out all day."

"You've got a point," I admit, putting my arm around Silas when he sits next to me. Snow comes on screen and Cato stiffens for just a second. "Hey, hey," I say softly. "We're gonna get you out of that deal with him, okay? You're gonna be safe."

"Right," he says. "Of course."

And then Snow speaks, staring straight through the television at me. "To illustrate the differences in all of us, there will be two games this year. One game with one tribute selected from the eligible children of each district, and a separate game with the most recent victor from each district. The victor of each will fight each other to the death. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I don't hear anything after that; I barely remember seeing anything. My mind is consumed with one thing only – panic. Complete, pure panic as this indisputable fact sinks in.

I'm going to be in the games again. Cato's going to be in them again. And this time, I don't see any way out.


	29. Epilogue

**First of all, the bonus material! Here's the POV blurbs I never posted. I wrote them mainly to figure out character motivation, so as the story progressed, I wrote less and less. But here they are! **

_Haymitch_

I don't know Katniss that well, but I understand her. So after the other kid dies and she's got that Career trapped on the roof, I am not at all surprised when she doesn't kill him. She's a stone-cold fox; the only thing that affects her is when people hurt the ones she loves, and that just happened big time. She's not stable right now. I just hope it doesn't get her killed.

He's a completely brutal killer, which is kind of terrifying. Not for me, for her. I'm not scared. It's nothing I haven't seen before.

That's a lie. If she dies, I'm going to be super pissed at her. Out of every kid in twelve, she's the only one who has what it takes to win. She's one-of-a-kind. I'm going to do whatever I can to help her out with this dumbass scheme.

I have some idea of what she's trying to do. She's confused and numb, trying not to deal with a shitload of guilt and sadness. I'm willing to bet she's gonna take him somewhere secure – that cave, probably – and keep him there while she figures everything out.

The Gamemakers should give her some time. Just her not killing him right off the bat is weird. Plus, I'm sure they'll want both kids strong for the final showdown. She'll get at least a couple of hours.

Honestly, I dunno how she does it – she's talking to the other dude pretty calmly. She should hate him. Everything up until this point was pretty much engineered so she would. I'm ninety-nine percent sure this is the fight those bastards were praying for; boy versus girl, 2 against 12, physical strength against mental. Really nice and symmetrical. They even look completely different. Once she gets her shit together and they finally have this last fight, it's gonna be fantastic.

Then she gives him some bread. That's the moment that I realize there isn't going to be a fight. I mean, yeah, I sent that note telling her to do what he would, but that was not the outcome I had in mind. At all.

Alright. If I'm being totally honest, I was aware this might be how things turned out. Katniss' sense of right and wrong is too strong to let her justify cold-blooded murder. Guess I was hoping for a vengeful rage. I should've known better

Anyways. It's clear she's in this for the long haul. Time for me to do my job and get her what she needs.

That kid from Twelve, the one who's been giving all these kickass interviews, Storm or whatever the hell his name is. he brought several rich sponsors to my doorstep who just want to help the poor girl that lost her father. I'm grateful to him for that, but I'm definitely not buying the cousin deal. I sense a scandal. But that's not my problem right now.

It costs the moon and stars to get her those shackles, but I get them. Anything to keep her safe. But then she goes and puts herself in harm's way, like six separate ways. She gets way too close to him to treat his wounds, feeds him as well as she's feeding herself like she's unaware she's just giving him more strength to kill her with. And he keeps missing all these opportunities to smash her head in or snap her neck. I can't tell if he's dumb or if he's waiting on purpose. It's probably because he's dumb.

But that can't be totally it. They train the kids to play the game well, look for weak spots and exploit them. He's doing this on purpose, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

_Ryan_

I'm lucky the games are required viewing, because I'm not sure my mother would let us watch otherwise. She doesn't care that our brother, her son, is in the final three. But even she won't go against the Capitol's commands, so Edan and I get to watch every second.

That's a good thing, of course, but it also sucks. We ant to see every minute, but I'm always super aware that means we'll probably see him die. I mean, I want him to win, I really do, but I know he won't. He'll never let Katniss die before he does. There's no way. And she's not going to let that Career get the best of her; she's too stubborn. It's why he loves her. He's told me all about it.

I used to think it was a good thing, him having a crush. She's beautiful, from what I've seen of her, and nice enough. For some reason, she gave him the patience to deal with Mom and all the other idiots who came through the bakery. That was good. But now, it's terrible, because it means my brother's gonna die.

Because of the rule change, they could both win. I just have this feeling it won't happen. The Career isn't going to die without taking somebody with him, and like I said, it won't be Katniss.

It still comes as a surprise to me, though, when he trips running to the Cornucopia. Immediately, I know this is it. He's not going to make it.

Katniss is terrified, but she's willing to stay with me, help him up, but Peeta screams at her to go. So she makes it onto the roof and holds off the Career, who's up there too. Which means she can't help Peeta up. Which means he's trapped, because he can't get himself up with his leg like that.

A terrifying fact registers in my mind: I'm going to watch my brother be torn to shreds by mutant dogs. But that doesn't happen. Katniss turns and shoots him, and I'm actually grateful for this, because it means I don't have to watch him anymore – the cameras leave him for the action, like nobody realizes how important it is that somebody just died. And not just somebody. My brother.

I realize it, though. After that moment where I see him fall, an arrow in his forehead, nothing else seems quite real. I'm sure I watch the rest of the games – I remember what happens, but not seeing it. I know I bake and sleep and eat, take care of the store and go to school, but nothing sinks in.

And then, one night, I see Katniss behind our house. I have to talk to her, find out if she really loved him, because if she did, then maybe I can make myself think it was almost worth it. Maybe I can find some peace.

I climb down the gutter. She's crying really hard when she sees me, which could be a good sign, I guess, but that doesn't mean I like it. All she does is apologize, before I can even get her away from the bakery. She makes me take her jacket, and then she answers my question.

She doesn't just say yes. She promises me she liked him back, and I believe her. There's something about her that makes me trust her; I can't explain it. I'm starting to understand why Peeta had such a thing for her. And as for me, I end up telling her everything, all the little things Peeta said to me late at night or confided to me on the walk home from school.

Before I can stop myself, I ask about the Career, the one who ended up alive, with her. She doesn't even get offended, just answers, telling me the truth; she likes him. Thinks he's nice. Not like my brother, though.

She's being so honest it makes me want to tell the truth back. So when she asks about Mom and Dad, I don't try to lie. It's almost nice to tell someone about Mom, someone who almost knows about her already.

Barely after I tell her that, Mom opens the back door and yells for me. I know I'm officially screwed – sneaking out is an offense worse than almost anything else. I remember what she did to Edan when she caught him coming back from seeing the mayor's daughter. That officially jerks me back in reality, because I'm scared as hell right now.

But hey, it was my choice to come out here with her, so I'm ready to go inside and take whatever comes. Katniss thinks it's somehow a good idea to get involved, though, earning the distinction of being one of the few people who can stop my mom in her tracks.

I think Katniss has figured out that being a victor gets her special consideration, cuz she plays that up all the way. It lets her get away with talking back to my mom whenever she makes a sly comment about Peeta. I've learned not to pay attention to those – it's easier than trying to correct her every time – but Katniss keeps getting offended, which just makes Mom more annoyed.

She orders me inside again. The way she's looking at me makes it pretty clear what's going to happen once the door closes. I'm set to take it like a man or whatever, but Katniss has different plans. She gets Mom to give me another minute outside, which is good, but as I'm talking to her, I hear Mom yelling at Edan, which is bad. And distracting.

Katniss reassures me that she cared about Peeta. Then she almost suggests the two of us be friends, which is kind of really cute and dorky. I really do like her, and I forgive her, so I tell her that, and hug her. It's not a big deal. But she holds onto me really tightly for a second, and I'm really tempted to do the same. All the acting in the world doesn't change the fact that I'm scared.

When we separate, she tells me I can stop by whenever I need help. Really sweet. I ask one more time about the Career guy. Guess I can't help myself. And she tells me he's just a friend. By this point, I feel weird about being so nosy, so I congratulate her, and she leaves, even though she doesn't want to.

That means I get to go back inside to Mom, who's definitely more angry now because she said a minute and I was out here for longer. For a second, I consider following Katniss, asking her if I can go to her house tonight, right now. But of course I don't. I've gotta deal with this on my own. So I do.

_Cato_

I hate having these drugs in me. I can handle a little pain, that's no big deal. I should've turned down the morphling, because I keep accidentally making her really mad at me by saying the wrong thing. I do enough wrong when I'm completely conscious of my actions. The last thing I need is hallucinations and no filter. Too late for those regrets now, I guess.

Re-watching the footage of the games, I notice the bread kid was all painted up like a rock. Figures we couldn't find him. I tell Katniss something along those lines, to make her feel better about him or whatever. It works, kind of. Except that she still seems to get upset for some reason.

Then I notice she's looking at his leg, the leg I cut open. Takes me longer than it should to connect the dots; she's mad at me for hurting him, for causing him to fall and then die.

It's not my fault, though. I had to do it. Kill or be killed – that's how the Games work. And suddenly, I feel really uncomfortable. She can't be mad at me for that. But she can. I can't even say I didn't want to. I did want to hurt him, and her, too. I was different. I was cruel. And I probably haven't changed.

She should know what she's getting herself into. I tell her. "I'm not sorry I hurt him. If we were in there, I'd probably do it again." Right after I say that, I realize how completely stupid of me it was to admit to that. She decided to forgive me for what I've done, or at least not talk about it, and I just brought it up. I'm an idiot.

I try to apologize, but it's too late. She's stiffened, moved away from me, and I'm sure she hates me by now. Unless that's not what's happening. I might be hallucinating. I hope I am. I know I'm not. Not about her. Though I'm pretty sure the walls aren't actually melting into tiny stars.

She hates me. Won't admit it when I ask her, but that's just because she's so nice. She won't even move away from me, even though I know she doesn't want to be anywhere near me. So I push her away. Long pieces of her hair and skin stick to me in strands, stretching thin as she moves away and then breaking. I'm positive that's the morphling, and I'm very proud I can recognize that.

I have to promise her I won't die, which is ridiculous. Why does she even care? She should want me to be dead. I killed her boyfriend. It's like she doesn't even understand how the world works. Although I admit, I don't exactly either right now. The world is sparkly and not real. Made out of clouds. I lay down after she goes, because the room's spinning without her next to me.

I try to pay attention to the television, to anchor me in reality. I remember the things that happened, and seeing it on the screen, those two things together help me not give in to all the hallucinations. I know some of them aren't true, like Clove sitting on the chair on the other side of the room. She's not real, I know that, but I can't help talking to her a bit.

She checks on me again, which is stupid. I tell her I'm still alive – Haymitch doesn't know what he's talking about. For some reason, that makes her feel better again. I don't get it.

Then she explains it, tells me that supposedly she can be angry at me without wanting to kill me. That blows my mind. So she's mad, but she still cares. I can handle that. I can handle anything, but this, this is good. As long as she doesn't hate me, I'll be okay. She has a right to be mad. Maybe even to hate me.

So I don't exactly believe her when she says she doesn't. My thoughts are getting more lucid, so I can almost reason my way through this; maybe she doesn't think she hates me, or maybe she doesn't want to, but she does. She has to. And I'm okay with that. As long as she stays near me a little longer. I can't let her go quite yet.

I watch the Games and she sits in that chair for a pretty long time. I'm not sure how long – time's kind of elastic – but at least reality is staying more solid. It's weird. Pretty soon, I'm steady enough to realize I haven't seen this footage on the TV now.

I feel strong enough to sit up, so I do, to better see the picture. I watch her get a gift from the sponsors, and then it starts to rain, pouring. Right now, I was just starting to get soaked in the cave. There was no way for her to know that, no way at all, but in an instant, she looks terrified and bursts into a sprint, heading straight for me. it's completely baffling, and I don't understand.

So I ask, "Why'd you run?" She doesn't get the question. "Why'd you run right there?"

"I was scared," she says, unsure.

"Yeah, but why? Did you think I'd escape?" I hope it's that. That would make sense. I could understand that.

But she shakes he head. "No. but maybe I should've worried about that."

"Then what are you worried about? It's obviously something." She looks absolutely terrified, even though she's safe and sound.

"Yeah, it was something." But she doesn't say what.

I turn back to the screen. She jumps straight down into the cave without hesitation, like it doesn't even cross her mind that I could be waiting to bash her head in. For a second, that doesn't make sense. Then I see her face when she realizes I'm drowning.

There's no mistaking it – she was absolutely terrified that I'd die. But I can't believe it, even though I can see it in her face. "You were scared for me?"

She doesn't answer, because she's too busy being all caught up in her thoughts, trying to figure out how to say yes without saying yes. It's like she's embarrassed by her emotions, which is the most reasonable thing she's done in a while.

Something changes. I don't know how to explain it, but a part of me shifts. Nobody ever worried about me like that, selflessly, maybe even at a cost to themselves. That doesn't happen. Once again, she's different than everybody else.

I don't deserve worry from someone like her, especially since she knows at least part of the terrible things I've done. That's the thing, though, I guess. She knows and she's willing to look past it, even back then, before I'd done anything that might give her any sort of reason to.

And that's the moment that I realize she's the best person I've ever met.

I need to let her know that. She needs to know that I get it; she's being merciful and stupid, and I appreciate it. She needs to know. But I don't know how to say it.

So I don't try. Instead, I kind of crawl over to her and lie my head in her lap, hold one of her hands. She's been so stupid for me, I figure it's my turn to make myself vulnerable. It's not as much of a risk as she took, since I'm pretty sure she won't hurt me and she knew I would, but it's the least I can do.

"What are you doing?" She sounds weird, something like scared except I think she's happy.

"Thank you," I say into her lap. She didn't have to save my life, or even be nice to me afterwards. She's been consistently taking care of me. She didn't have to do any of that.

"For what?" she asks

"You're… you…" Telling her she's amazing doesn't quite cover it. And part of me knows how stupid it is to be weak in front people, even right now, to her. But I don't care. "I shouldn't say this. But you're completely the best person I've ever met."

She starts to tell me all the reasons that's not true, saying that I just don't know her enough, but I know for certain that's bullshit.

"Shut up," I cut her off, because she's being ridiculous.

"Okay." After a second, she puts her hand on my hair, kind of ruffles it. It's nice – weird, because nobody has ever touched me like this. The only time people touch me is in training, to hit me or drag me around, or in the infirmary when they're patching up the most life-threatening injuries. But from the beginning, Katniss has touched me gently.

Another way she's awesome.

"Get up here," she says after a second. "Come here."

She wants me to sit in the same chair as her. Okay. So I pull myself up into the chair next to her. I feel kind of nervous about being so close to her, but she doesn't. So I put my arms around her waist and lean on her side. And this is officially the closest I've ever been to someone. I can smell her hair and clothes and skin.

And I like it.

_Haymitch_

The more I learn about Katniss Everdeen, the more I'm starting to realize exactly how much I underestimated her. She's a spectacular born fighter – I managed to pick up on that much before she went into the arena – but she's far more than that, far better.

I kinda test her with the shopping thing. Everything a person could want is on that giant inventory list, and she got more money than most people can dream of. If she's ever going to become a material girl, now's the time.

But that girl is undistractable. The only things she'll buy are ones with some kind of practical use. Food, warm clothes, medical supplies. She buys literally nothing for herself. Not a single shirt or anything. The fanciest things she buys are colorful dresses for her twig of a sister and her hot mom.

Is that inappropriate for me to say? I think about it for a second and decide it's fine. Not like she's too young for me or something.

I remark on this, to see if it's maybe all for show. And she doesn't even falter. She talks about growing up Seam, and I know she's not lying. She's an ice-cold strategist, but she somehow combines that with insane natural compassion and manages to come out of the whole thing as the least-talented actress I've ever seen. And then without a second thought, she invites the strong kid over onto the couch with us.

That's more impressive than her practicality, quite frankly. The way she just accepts him, manages to overlook how he was insane and murderous. It'd be stupid if he was still like that, and I'd write it off as a side-effect of seeing Peeta die. But he really has changed – I can see it in the way he looks at her, so I reluctantly approve of him.

VERY reluctantly.

I banter with her, because I like the look on her face when I annoy her, but I'm not really paying attention to what's going on. So I make an extremely stupid mistake. I suggest she buy the bread from Eleven.

Normally, not the end of the world, but she got a loaf from there after that little girl died. Huge emotional moment or whatever. I don't remember, really, which totally comes back to bite me in the ass. And I don't even realize it.

The meathead gets it before I do, and he tries to run interference, but I screw that up, too. Only after she's on the verge of tears do I get the dots connected in my only _partially_-drunk brain. Then, I get that bread off the screen as fast as possible while he calms her down. She doesn't even cry because of him.

It's getting super-convenient to have him around. He's really good at taking her back down when she goes all emotional, something I'm definitely awful at. I'm starting to think I might conceivably think of him as more than a parasite on her victory. Maybe.

Eventually.

**I'm going to start this out with another thank you, which I'm sure is starting to sound a little hollow at this point, since I've said it so much. Honestly, there aren't enough words in existence to express how much I appreciate the support you've given me. Before this story, I'd written a couple other things, which those of you who've creeped on my profile know already. None of them were super popular, and that's how expected this one to go. I'd quietly write out all my Kato feels, attempt to create the beautiful but difficult romance I saw being possible, and when I was done sobbing at my computer screen, I'd move on and no one would care. Clearly, that wasn't exactly how it went.**

**Having written for the "big three" of fandoms – Harry Potter, Glee, and the Hunger Games – I think I'm qualified enough to take a guess at why this fic took off. First of all, it's a pretty select ship. Not a lot of people want to break up the canon Peeniss Everlark, including me. From what you've said, many of you ship both, which is great. I think most of you were either hardcore Kato/Catoniss fans looking for a nice, long (hopefully) well-written fic, or Peeniss shippers open to something new. You don't see openness like that in a lot of other fandoms. **

**Second, I was more personally invested in this one. Like I said at the start of this whole thing, Kato is the ship that I curl up around and hiss at anyone who tries to write it, because it's so beautiful in my head. I actually had a goal in mind while I was writing, which usually helps with small things like foreshadowing and continuity (Ryan Murphy, I'm looking at you). **

**But aspects of both those points were present in my earlier stories. I was hella involved with my Glee one, and my HP fic included the relatively rare Draco/Ginny thing. This brings me to my third point; it was the fandom. The Hunger Games fandom is wonderful. I was prepared for tons of "YOU KILLED PEETA" themed hate, but got none. Seriously. 0 flames, out of 600+ comments. That's incredible. The absence of shipping wars makes the fandom a place to just love the characters and world Suzanne built for us, which is exactly what all fandoms should do. Thanks for being so awesome, you guys, and for making me feel super popular the day after I post a new chapter. **

**Now, as I told you before, I'm doing a sequel for sure. I'm having too much fun to stop now, and I always intended to at least finish the Quarter Quell (Finnick Odair, anyone?). I've always started writing, but there's going to be a pretty long break between now and when I post the first chapter of that. I need time to catch my breath, so to speak, and I'm also going to do this fic differently. I'm still going to write as I go, but I'm going to try to stay several chapters ahead of what I've posted so I can do things like symbolism and consistent themes. I guess to say it in other words, I'm gonna try to do this one more like an actual book.**

**Speaking of books, I have some kind of exciting news. I've decided that I want to write professionally, forever. That does bring up the whole "how to support myself in the meantime" thing, but that's really secondary. To stay up-to-date on my book-writing/hopefully publishing process, check out my tumblr. Same username. We can hopefully keep in touch that way. And if I ever do become a published author, I hope you guys will continue to give me honest feedback, so I can get better or whatever. :)**

**Obviously, I have a lot of feels about these characters, and believe it or not, a lot of them didn't make it into the fic. This is the part where I tell you about my detailed headcanons. The only reason I don't feel ridiculously narcissistic doing this is because so many of you asked, and also this kind of sets the stage for the sequel. So. The main characters first. **

**Katniss: First of all, I'd like to give all credit to Suzanne Collins for creating such a strong female protagonist for me to work with. Katniss is dynamic, imperfect, unique, and spectacular, and she was so well-characterized that I had almost no work to do. This is my take on some of her motivations and tendencies that come up in this fanfic. **

**She had to grow up from a very young age, because of her father's death and mother's depression. Taking care of Prim became her life, because if she didn't have anything to focus on, she'd go crazy with grief herself. She talks about that a little, how the grief would come back in crippling waves, but mostly she learned to shut it all out for the good of her family. And as she observes, after she made herself stop counting on her mother for protection, she never felt quite the same about her again. She'd been disillusioned, and grew up quickly. **

**Gale grew up with her, not just metaphorically. When his father died, he was in a similar predicament, so they were pushed together not just by a need to survive, but also because nobody else understood them. All kids in the Seam grew up fast, but not like they did. There's a reason that, out of all the kids who needed to provide for their families, only Gale and Katniss were brave enough to go into the woods. They grew up the same way, same circumstances, nearly down to the most minute detail. **

**So it's no surprised that they turned out with similar personalities and dispositions – two **_**different**_** things that I will elaborate on. Their personality is what they like, dislike, enjoy and value. Those are nearly identical, but just different enough for them to enjoy each other's company. Their disposition, however, is how they deal with and feel about things. Katniss even observes this; she comments on how they've both got fire, the fire that allows her to be just mad enough to win, and lets him get all rebellious and anti-Capitol when that's the most dangerous thing to be. **

**Here's the difference, though. Gale allows his fire to curdle into hatred; hatred of the government, the Peacekeepers, the rules that threaten his family (and especially those that stop him from doing what he wants – be with Katniss, enjoy his life, not work in the mines.) Katniss, however, keeps her kindness intact. This can be directly traced to Peeta and Prim. Now Prim is all she has left, and that's why Cato's perfect for her, because he makes her think about that kindness and cherish it. **

**TL;DR Katniss Gale 5EVAH, best female protagonist ever**

**Cato: We're not given much to work with in the actual books. Here's a few of the characteristics I've given him. Because of his childhood, he's good at compartmentalizing, good at shoving away emotion, and prone to not overthinking anything. He hates himself – that's bred into him, to make him easier to control. I think all of the tributes from two have that, but he definitely does. This all only makes him more sure that he'll never deserve Katniss.**

**And it's not like he was a mindless killing machine before and a sudden softy after. He was always more doubtful about the games, his purpose in life, and all that, and that only made him more sure that he was insane. That's why he threw himself into training, because since he'd want to be accepted, so he'd try extra hard to conform. **

**His relationship with Silas breaks my heart. He pushed the kid away as hard as he could, because he reminds Cato so much of himself. Except he feels even worse about Silas, because he's so obviously something special and Cato just **_**knows**_** that it's going to be beaten out of him. When he finds out how to be supportive and kind, like a normal brother, he jumps on that chance as soon as he's sure Silas is willing to forgive him. **

**Sophia kind of weirds him out. She's everything he was, except she wanted to be it, and he just doesn't know how to handle that, or even how to maybe argue her out of that. And he does care about her, but she's too prickly for him to be able to show it, except when they're tired and vulnerable. **

**Cato was trained to submit to authority figures, which explains in part him letting his parents hurt him for so long. Also there is a trained helplessness that he doesn't realize is there. They have him believing that he's trapped, and that keeps him from doing a lot of things. **

**TL;DR MY SWEET BBY LET ME LOVE YOU, YOU PERF HUMAN BEING AWEIODFJAIEOFJSLDKJF**

**For everything I think/feel about Haymitch and Katniss's relationship, go to this tumblr post. It sums it up completely: post/20213881007/lets-talk-about-katniss-haymitch**

**Aside from the main characters, there were some really surprising standouts. It seems like my versions of Peeta's brothers were pretty much universal favorites, and I'm talking about for me, too. The thoughts I initially had about them were pretty simple; while Peeta was Katniss' hope and source of optimism, his brothers saw him as a kid with a crush on a girl who didn't know he existed. Thus, Ryan developed, just as kind as Peeta but more practical, a typical overlooked middle child. Edan's a cocky oldest kid, more jaded than his brothers but still an ultimately good guy. I think that's a Mellark trait. (Tangent: I absolutely LOVED writing the scene when Haymitch socks their mom in the face. I cackled.)**

**And then just personally, I love Silas. I. Love. Him. Number one favorite. So, naturally, all this terrible shit happens to him. I guess I kind of always thought Katniss should have this physical representation of what Cato might've been before he had his humanity conditioned out of him. Plus, in the same way that Prim knows Katniss and can say things about her no one else could, Silas is like that with Cato. Before he met Katniss, he just didn't have anyone to say those things to. Actually, he didn't really have anyone to talk to, period. Friendship is not encouraged in 2, and his family didn't care.**

**I honestly expected these characters to be more like background. Sure, I cared about them, but that's because they're my brain children. But apparently, you love them too, which has done wonders for my self-confidence in being able to write likable characters.**

**Now. The Endra stuff. I know most of you didn't stay completely on top of everything that happened – I barely could keep track of the number of times she deleted and recreated and yelled at me. She seems to be done now, for which I'm very grateful. I would like to state once for the record that IF YOU'RE REALLY A FAN OF SOMETHING YOU DON'T STEAL IT. ****Ahem**** but yeah, people don't go swiping the Mona Lisa or Starry Night. And while this is a work of far less genius, it still SHOULDN'T BE STOLEN. Really, though, I'm lucky this hasn't happened before, except that you're such wonderful fans. I love you. Thank you. **

**While we're on the subject of gratitude, I have some very specific thanks. Here comes a run-on sentence: Thanks to everyone who messaged me with a question that wasn't integral to the plot but still very urgently asked because you cared about details, to everyone who read multiple times, to the numerous people who apparently cried, screamed, or squeed, to everyone who told people to read, read with their friends and family, or posted a rec somewhere, to those talented kids out there who made fanart and helped correct my typos, to everyone who gave me a suggestion for plot, setting, or bonus features, and last but not least, to my sister who read the whole thing and didn't call me weird for spending so much time on a fanfiction. Charlie and Lea, you were the best beta readers ever. Love you all, whether I know your names or not, because you all put in hours of your time to this. The sheer number of you who took the time to leave a review or comment is outstanding and wonderful, and I'll never be able to repay you for everything you've given me during these 27 chapters. **

**I'm doing a Finnick fic between the two of these, to block out his relationship with Annie and such. I posted the first chapter of it so you guys can add that to your alerts now and not have to go through the whole awkward looking for it hunt. I'll put updates about the sequel there. The Finnick story's called "Yours" and you can find it by going through my username. **

**Until next time, and may the odds be ever in your favor. **


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